


The Obsessor

by LazBriar



Series: The Obsessor [1]
Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Gen, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Series, m/m - Freeform, spider - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2020-03-30 03:52:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19034221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LazBriar/pseuds/LazBriar
Summary: Congratulations, Anon, you're Head of Hotel Security! The safety of everyone is in your hands, including Angel Dust.Unfortunately, someone has other plans. Deep, obsessive, horrible plans.





	1. The Obsessor - Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> Reader! Welcome to my first mini-series, The Obsessor.
> 
> This series is part of a timeline. It takes place after:
> 
> >The Thief, The Spider, and The Hotel  
> >Sabbatical  
> >Party Girls Don't Get Hurt
> 
> This reading is not required to enjoy, but, if things don't make sense, it's because The Obsesssor takes place after the works mentioned.
> 
> Enjoy!

 

 

[A ziggurat of flashing screens](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pPnqRZB23-U) washed a hunched, chattering figure in waves of pale light. There were dozens of them, stacked like a small hill, rectangular sheets flicking and changing and blinking, leaping from one recording to the next. The figure’s enormous, saucer-like eyes – black, bulbous voids – twitched from image to image, compiling every scrap of information it could extract from the endless, televised input.

He’d been doing this for years. _Years._ The work, the ceaseless, endless work. Every day, every hour, every _second_ was a chance for new information, a new clip, a partition of _his_ voice, a fragment of _his_ appearance. All of it, anything, whenever, wherever.

He needed it. His form _craved_ it, survived on it. He couldn’t exist, couldn’t _breathe_ unless every waking moment was filled with Angel Dust. In sight, in mind, in memory, in voice. Every sense was to be filled with the elegant arachnid’s presence. Every screen was an interview, a photograph, a captured street recording, an adult film, a freeze-frame, _ANYTHING._ Oh, precious Angel Dust, oh dear Angel Dust, his love, his absolute infatuation, his world, his life, his _everything._

His obsession.

His walls – a cheap, mold-covered brick – were _buried_ in hundreds upon hundreds of Angel Dust related imagery. Anything from ripped photo-shoots, magazines, shoddy art, pictorials, porn mags, and poster clippings populated the normally filthy walls, often accompanied by needless annotations scribbled on by the Obsessor. Things meant for Angel Dust, but things Angel Dust would never hear. “Your biggest fan!” or “Thank you!” Innocent things like “You’re a legend!”

Then other things. _I love you, I love you, I love you,_ over and over and over like perverse song. _I need you. I must have you. I must see you. I’m the only one. Only I know you. Give yourself to me. I’d never let you go. I’d be with you always._

Other things.

_I need to be inside you, I need to wear you, I want to wear you, I want to smell you, I need your insides, I need your eyes, I need your smile, I’ll never let you go, I’ll have you here always, you’re mine, you’re mine, you’re mine. . ._

Scrawled like a profane bible. There were notebooks of musings, patterns of a madman, piled upon the other in small towers tucked into the corner. Tables with tiny candles were lit around images of Angel, a ritual conducted every night, a dark prayer cast out to the noise of Pentagram City in hopes the spider of his affection might grant mercy and see him. Or look at him. Or _notice him._ Once, just once, just one tiny second out of all the infinities of time. Just a partition of a second. Oh Devil, when!?

Never, because the Obsessor wasn’t working hard enough, that was clear. He needed _more!_ Always more. Always adding to the collection, always compiling, always finding and learning and _knowing every little thing about Angel Dust._ The precise gram measurement of blow he preferred, his drink of choice, his clothing, his perfume, every brand of makeup, eyeliner, and lipgloss, every live performance, every adult film, every publication he was ever in, ALL OF IT.

Something was wrong, though. Obsessor’s fangs clicked together, emitting noises of harsh, frantic concern. At first, he assumed this was a miscalculation. This discovery, this revelation.

Another rich nobody getting extracted for all their wealth until Angel would toss them aside like he routinely did with clients. After all, who could _possibly_ tame the heart of such a gorgeous specimen? Who _possibly_ know more than he, Obs? His favorite early morning drink, afternoon snack, preference of shampoo for Fat Nuggets? WHO!?

But no. No something was wrong. Terribly, inconceivably wrong. In the Web, one of his fellow enthusiasts pinged him with a message. They all did. At first, the chat board did it’s usual – murmuring about how much they loved Angel and what they’d do to him, given a night with the effeminate arachnid. Obsessor – of coursed – quashed them all, only _he_ knew what Angel _really_ wanted. But as the usual drivel rolled in, the updated posts cycling through favored images and Angel Dust related media, a strange image appeared, one catching everyone off guard, including Obsessor.

_> hey obs, did you see this shit?_

That night, the skeletal arachnid blinked in confusion. It was an image of Angel Dust siphoned from the then still-existing _Sugary Chigurh_ camera feed. Angel, his hands wrapped around the silhouette of some figure, some nobody in a cheap suit. Well, he assumed the usual: another one of these vapid, shallow clients who’d use Angel up and leave him. Probably didn’t even please the spider right.

> _god what a fag_

_> That hat is dumb._

_> Angel’s too good for him; any info on the guy?_

_> yo obs what’s his deal_

Confounded, Obsessor was as perplexed as the rest of them, but assured them it was nothing. Another memory. But then, things _changed._ Angel stopped haunting his usual dives. The livestream feed where the group normally caught glimpses of Angel by hacking nightclub cameras were absent of the spider. His porn flicks all but vanished. His usual nights of chaos were. . . absent. Panic and rage ensued. And then they saw HIM.

This shadow, this silhouette, this. . . this. . .

Even now, Obsessor’s fangs dripped with venom. How could you, Angel? How could you? What did that fucking nobody have that he didn’t!? Did he spend every unblinking second of every day thinking about Angel? DID HE!? OF COURSE HE DIDN’T!

It was a nightmare.

And then the worse news. One night, one of the thread regulars chimed in:

> _THIS IS NOT A DRILL! THIS IS NOT A DRILL! ANGEL’S AT THE FUCKING HAPPY HOTEL!_

And like a switch, Obsessor lost his Angel Dust. Everyone did. There were no more adult films, no more street antics, interviews, explicit images, nothing. The world collapsed, the door underneath him swung open, and he fell into a void of confusion, fear, and anger. How? WHY? What could possess _the_ Angel Dust to give up everything he had? How could he do this? To HIM!? After all the _work!?_

But. . . that wasn’t fair. It wasn’t. It _couldn’t_ have been Angel. Clearly, he was manipulated. Lied to. Told something to sway him to an erroneous decision. This was the only logical explanation. And that. . . that _thing_ in the suit, that shadow with the eye. It was clear he was the one pulling his spider’s strings.

His fangs clicked together, a vapor of cold air leaving him. An image flicked into life, monitor bathing him with a reddish light. It was a picture of the _Happy Hotel,_ tall and imposing like a monolith of deep scarlet, crowned with pink neon lights. This place was not a world for redemption, it was a tomb. Because the Angel Dust he knew and loved was here, rotting, losing his _true_ way. If what his board comrades found too, the spook was there, and Devil only knew what he was doing.

 _Touching him._ The idea caused the skeletal thing to shudder uncontrollably. He wanted to vomit, were there food in his stomach to do so. Unforgivable.

This night, things were changing. Instead of spending his ours speculating over what-ifs and whys, he had to take action. The shadows were always his friend – hid him – kept him in their loving embrace. No one ever looked his way (or cared to), no would notice if he slipped passed the doors and approached this situation with. . . intimacy.

He left a message for his chat, dawning the duty as hero (as usual).

“I can fix this.”

-*-

The walls of your “new” office are plastered with plans. No, not _those_ plans, new ones. Hotel schematics and blueprints, in fact. Ever since your “promotion” to Head of Hotel Security, you’ve requested layouts of the building’s skeleton. There’s. . . not a whole lot, you’ve come to find out. While Charlie – history aside – was more than happy to provide you with the necessary supplies, said supplies were sparse in nature. Much of the Hotel was in disrepair, and lots of its older layers were either untouchable or hidden away.

They were so hidden you _didn’t even know_ about Baxter, the local mad scientist. He’d been, apparently, conducting a host of bizarre experiments in the lower levels for Devil only knew how long. And you didn’t even know there was a lower level! Well, mystery after mystery, secrets were coming to bear. Be it citizens you were unaware of or chambers of the Hotel tucked away, you were learning. You had to. Security meant knowing the ins and outs of everything. Every angle, every hall, every door, every opening. Until you could cite their location like the back of your hand, well, you had no business being head of anything, much less security.

So, your office walls were hidden by long stretches of paper, some of your own making, some of the things Charlie granted access to. Nice of her, really. Sweet thing, entrusting you with such a leviathan task, especially considering your. . . checkered history. It was, in essence, asking a known thief to the mind the keys of a bank vault.

But, damn it all, you were going to prove to yourself you could be better. For yourself. For your family. For Angel.

The blueprints, then, were good starting points. Your office would act as the nexus to all other branches of security. Cameras, monitors, entry areas, and so on. Problem was the Happy Hotel wasn’t wired for security. At all. You were going to have to manually set up screens and connections everywhere in the building – or at least the places you deemed crucial to monitor. With cables? Well, unless you were a one-man construction crew, that was impossible. Wireless signals were your only option, and the headaches involved with it were already problematic. But, a job was a job, and you saw them through. At least, it gave your mind something to tinker with, a “fix” for your desire to scheme and mediate.

You were certainly pressing yourself on it. On your desk, a basic copy of the Hotel schema rested next to a glass ashtray and a hill of stamped out cigs. Next to it, a couple empty glasses sticky with dew from some cheap bourbon. You weren’t much a smoker or a drinker. . .  until now. Sleep, too, abandoned you. How long were you going for? Well past 24 hours, easily, and you didn’t leave the office much unless it was for a small meal or a smoke on the roof.

Still, worth it. Had a nice, familiar feeling. Like the old days, before a big score, spending those endless evenings contemplating every aspect of a heist. Just, now, it was the reverse.

A screen sat on a table next to your desk, along with a control yolk fixed with switches and numbers. This, ideally, was your control brain, something to allow you to flick from screen to screen to check out the monitored parts of the Hotel. Right now, everything was blank. You didn’t even have the cameras to set up (though a meeting with Baxter would hopefully change this), so it was all a bootleg operation. Square fucking one. Since hardware was so precious right now, you had to think your choices out. Think like _yourself._ If you were breaking into the Hotel, where would you go?

Before you could answer this self-directed query, a noise caught your attention. A sudden scampering of footsteps, quick and frantic, tapping on the wood floor. Alarmed, you leaned over, expecting an intruder. Intruder it was!

“Nuggets!”

A ball of pink and hair scurried around the room, oinking happily as Fat Nuggets squished his flat nose into every surface he could find. His ears flagged, glancing to you, only to run around your desk in playful circles, squeaking like he’d just got out from a fresh mud bath.

You chuckle, voice hoarse. You pushed back from your seat, trying to catch him, but the scamp was too quick! Swift on his hooves for being such a butterball.

“Aren’t you supposed to be asleep, young man?”

It was late. Well, for the other guests at least. Time meant little to you. But you knew Angel liked his baby in bed at a good time, and a half-hour past ten was _not._

Fat Nuggets sensed your question, stopping to look up at you, tilting head. His corkscrew tail wiggled, and he grumbled with pleasant noises.

“Oink!”

You crossed your arms. “Angel did _not_ let you stay up past bedtime.”

Little fella’ thought he was clever, did he?

You reached for him, but he sped off again, going to hide behind a chair. He poked out from it, looking at you with a mischievous gaze. You sighed, trying to hold back a smile.

“Buddy, you’ve gotta get to sleep. And I have work to do.”

Cautiously, he crept toward you, sniffing at your desk, as if curious. You _really_ should make him go to sleep, but, dammit, he’s a nice distraction. You and Nuggets don’t hang out too much. He plays with your shoes when you’re with Angel in the spider’s room, and you always dote on him with pets, but not much beyond that. And you really should. He is _absolutely_ precious to Angel. The spider isn’t kidding when he calls Nuggets his “baby.” He genuinely loves the little oink, and so should you.

Fat Nuggets sits at your feet, giving you an expectant stare. A challenging one. You shake your head, defeated.

“All right, all right. C’mere.”

Realizing you aren’t trying to shoo him off, he allows you to pick him up. You set the pig on your desk, tapping the blueprint copy. He eagerly sniffs at it, looking between you and the scrawlings.

“See? I’ve got to put special cameras here. . . and here. . .”

You touch two points of the map: one for the entrance and one for the first level hallway. They’re nothing special, but meant to give you an overview of what to look for. How do things look on camera? What’s their quality? Perspective is important.

It doesn’t seem to process with the pig, not like you expected it to. You pet him though, and Fat Nuggets is more than happy to oblige your hands, nuzzling into them. He even takes it upon himself to curl into the copy, crunching the paper.

“Hey! I need this.”

He blinks at you, innocent and button-eyed.

Again, you shake your head. “You’re a lot of trouble, Nugs.”

Hmm. Trouble. Small, quick, and probably a damn good sense of smell.

Amusing yourself, you take your hat and place it on his head. Of course, it overshadows him at once, and he sits up with another head-tilt, perplexed. Only his snout is visible.

“Sorry, I’ll need to get you something in size pig.”

Head of Security. . . it was just you. Weren’t you supposed to have like, a dog? But then again. . .

You’re not being serious, are you?

“You know, Nuggets,” you say, petting his back. “I can’t do this alone. It’s gonna be a lot of work. I could sure use somebody at my side. Like a deputy.”

You tilt the hat so his eyes are visible, and he stares to, squeaking happily.

“I never took a big score by myself, always had a team.” You touch his nose, leaning into the desk, scratching his cheek.

“How about it? Deputy Nuggets has a nice ring, huh?”

The pig oinks again, licking your finger. You don’t know if he understands, but you laugh all the same. Damn, cute little fella! You can’t help yourself. You snatch the oink, despite your weariness, and hold him close, giving him a downpour of pets. He wriggles in jubilation, happy to receive an avalanche of attention. It’s strange to have something so unrepentantly joyful in your grasp. How’d he get down here, you wonder? You don’t trust people, but animals. . . animals you can understand.

You, apparently, didn’t hear the door push open. As you’re distracted by the happy oink, someone’s been watching you.

You and Fat Nuggets freeze like you’ve been caught in some criminal act.

Angel Dust is leaning on the door frame, long pink shirt draped over his frame, extra arms crossed.

“Wow.”

You look at Fat Nuggets. He looks at you.

“Two of my favorite little shits gettin’ up to no good.”

Angel’s tone is coated with its usual sardonic atmosphere, but he can’t hide the warm smile stretching his features.

“You’re s’posed to be asleep,” says Angel, pointing. Fat Nuggets hides in your suit, playfully. You’ll cover for him.

“Uh. . . he was just helping me, Angel.”

He leers. “I meant both of ya’!”

He saunters forward, glancing around the office suspiciously. “This where you been sneakin’ off to, eh? Think you’d pull a fast one on me?”

He comes to your desk, slapping his hands into the frame, leaning. Enough that you spy his fluff “cleavage.” You know it’s just for show, but, boy does it look appealing.

“Huh? No, it’s not like th-”

A finger to your lips. “Nnshoosh. And _now_ you’re runnin’ off with my baby! Who ya’ think ya' are, wise guy?”

Fat Nuggets reappears from within your suit, head poking out. Maybe you’re just tired, but. . .

“Am. . . I in trouble?”

Angel’s smile evolves into a grin. He looks so incredibly happy. His mismatched eyes look at Fat Nuggets, how the pig’s wrapped up in your suited embrace, and it’s clear it delights him to no end. Now the spider looks at you, winking.

“Ya’ bet your ass you’re in trouble! I miss my boys!”

Oh. A twinge of relief washes over you.

Angel reaches to scratch Nuggets on the head, the little oink responding with a downpour of satisfied grumbles.

“N’awww. Little Nuggy! Ya’ havin’ fun? Mm? You should be in bed ya’ little troublemaker!”

The spider snickers, noting your hat on the pig's head. “Look at youuuuu!”

Okay, well you’re not about to deny Angel his precious pig any longer. Gently, you hoist the hog from your suit and hand him over. Angel gladly takes the ball of pink in hands, kissing him on the forehead. He’s still got the hat.

It’s. . . really a wonderful sight. You’ll give anything to see Angel Dust happy, and it’s so clear how joyful Fat Nuggets makes him. You want that moment for him, want it to last as long as possible.

Angel holds Nuggets in an embrace, before looking back to you, gesturing with his head.

“Well? _Come on._ Bed. Time.”

You scoff. “Angel, I have work to do.”

Angel pulls at your tie. “Don’t sass me, wise guy. Ain’t seen you all day. And. . .”

He sniffs and makes a face. “Blugh! Ya’ smell like last-call at a shitty bar! You even _bathed?_ Gross! Out! Outta’ this dump and outta’ them clothes!”

Are you _really_ going to argue with him?

Oh, it’s pointless. The subtle scent of his warm fluff and perfume is too goddamn inviting. And your body is roaring at you to rest, not to mention a hot shower sounds pretty nice. Eventually, you nod.

“All right, all right. Let me go shower and I’ll meet you.”

Angel laughs. “ _Your_ shower? Aw, fuck no! You’re usin’ mine this time. What kinda’ body wash you usin?”

He doesn’t let you answer. “Exactly.”

A finger gesture. “Let’s go.”

Angel’s shower? Wow, what an honor. Last time you saw his bathroom it was to help him, well, _expunge._ Needless to say, when your better half is coughing up bile you’re not paying attention to the environment, so you didn't get to appreciate how  _luxurious_ his digs were.

So, you follow. Back to Angel’s _very_ pink room. He busies himself with Fat Nuggets, readying the pig for bed while you prep to get yourself clean. Stepping into his washroom is like walking into a completely different dimension. _Everything_ about it is neatly organized. His tub is wide and spacious, a gold trim showerhead accenting the literal _army_ of shampoos, conditioners, and treatments perfect for his, well, fluff. He’s got a scent and smell for every occasion, every need, every look. The spider looks _exactly_ how he wants, when he wants, a tool for every trade, and you’re admittedly proud. He plans this out, kinda' like a heist.

 _“Use the cedarwood skin wash and cleanser!”_ he calls through the door. _“Ivory scrubber too! Third one on the right! Don’t fuckin’ be a baby bout' it, scrub!”_

Hey! You didn’t need a tutorial on bathing yourself.

_Guy, this is Angel Dust. Just listen to your boyfriend._

He makes another disgusted sound. “ _I’m burnin’ your clothes, too!”_

You want to protest, but, he’s only joking. Uh. Right?

Well, in the meantime you do as told. The water is perfect, bathing you in heat. The scrubber he mentioned is hung next to a few others, all different lengths and sizes. The body wash is enticing, subtle and rustic, while the brush tips are like stiff silk. Angel Dust knows his stuff.

You do your best to set everything back _just_ right. It’s clear the spider has everything the way he likes it, so he’ll notice any difference, no matter how minute. Much like your eye for detail. You might only have one, now, but doesn’t mean you’re any less meticulous.

When you dry off and step out, it’s nice and peaceful. Fat Nuggets is curled in his little pig-bed, settling down. On Angel’s bed, the spider set aside some clothes for you. Comfortable attire for the night. How. . . thoughtful. And they fit, too, perfectly. It’s a wonderful feeling, small as it is. To know that Angel understands you, right down to your physical dimensions. Goddamn spider has your heart and he’s not letting go.

He’s cleaning off his makeup for the evening, glancing at you from mirror reflection. “Great! Now ya’ don’t smell like ass n'cigarettes!”

You shrug. “Hey, I work hard. It happens.”

He snickers. “Ya’ work hard!? Since _when?_ Stealin’ don’t count!’

You think it over. “. . . you’re not really burning my clothes, are you?”

The spider dawns a wicked sneer. “Ohhh you fuckin’ bet, pockets. Ya’ know how hard it is to get smoke outta’ cotton? Now I gotta’ get you a nice new patch job. Real slick. Like a regular Mafioso! Aw, you’d make a godfather blush!”

You recline in his bed. Sheesh. Again, how can you argue? When it comes to clothes you’re way out of depth. And, well, it can’t hurt to have something fitting of your station. New job, new look.

You smirk. “What about you?”

“What _about_ me!?” He seems _insulted_ you’d suggest a different style for him.

“I don’t know. Does this mean I can pick out some lace for you?”

There’s a subtle, but noticeable, blush. “Oh you’d love that, wouldn’t ya?” he purrs.

You dawn an innocent expression. “I just want to get you something nice, is all.”

He finishes with his cleaning, prancing passed you to the bathroom, off to brush his teeth. “I’ll think about it,” he hints with a mischievous tone. It’s a yes, it always means yes. Mm, Angel in lace? How nice.

He returns and shuffles into the pink covers with you when he finishes with his pearly fangs. It’s the same old thing, but Devil, it _never_ gets old. The proximity of his frame, the warmth of his soft, silky body, the way you curl into each other, the way your legs tangle. All these precious, private, intimate things. They only belong to you and him, no one else.

Exhaustion is starting to come, slow and heavy. That day of no-sleep is catching up fast, so you engage in the lullaby of pillow talk. Gentle chatter. You ask Angel how things have been, especially with his recovery. He admits it’s still hard, and he’s not off all his habits yet.

“Made it about to three today before I got cravins’. Had to swig some scotch. Little buzzer to take the edge off.”

Okay, so ecstasy and alcohol, not so bad. Certainly better than his relapse. When he asks _you,_ well, you try to lie.

“New work is stressful, but, I’m enjoying it.”

“Uh huh.”

“Really, I am.”

“Pockets. . .”

All right, all right. Dammit. You admit it’s. . . not as easy as you’d hoped. Not the work, not the task. Just, giving up _who you are._ You have always been a criminal. Since you were a kid. Stealing, hurting, manipulating, it’s all you ever knew. And now, all of a sudden, you had to just. . . stop? It was so far removed from what you thought was right. The only thing keeping you from losing it, from falling back into old habits was your family. Angel. Without them, you were more than happy to pilfer the pillars of the Hotel’s most precious corridors.

“Ain’t easy,” whispered Angel, voice weary. “Stick with it babe. I’m right there with ya’.”

Yes. Yes he was.

You share your strength with him. You kiss, you hold, and you start to rest. This at least belong to you. This private, precious sanctuary. A domain for only you and he, protected from all parts of Pentagram City. Here in this temple of companionship, you could share anything. Your innermost thoughts, desires, problems. His happiness was your problem. Your happiness was his problem. A gentle, warm feeling, more valuable than all the jewels in the underworld.

It’s a shame you didn’t see it, the watching eye.

-*-

Obsessor hung off the side of the building wall, extra limbs clutched to the brick while his thin claws whirled together. His massive mandibles squirmed and twitched, a series of agonized sounds clicking from him. This couldn’t be! This wasn’t _supposed_ to be!

His massive, unblinking, saucer-like eyes gazed out to Pentagram City, while his other ones were busy. Quite busy. This form, thin and pathetic and weak, it provided him few benefits. Save for one. His predatory nature allowed him to detach his extra eyes from his head. Like autonomous spheres, they could travel and crawl like little worms, finding their way into any crevice or crack. All things they saw, _he_ saw. And, as it so happened, the Hotel was littered with tiny openings. As it also happened, _Angel Dust_ was in here.

Precious, wonderful, lovely Angel Dust. He could scarcely believe it. So many years spent admiring the effeminate arachnid from afar, and for the first time, he was closer to Angel than ever before. But, not close enough. Not at all.

At first, navigating the insides of the Hotel was a nauseating task. It was a blister of broken walls and scratched paint. Here and there he spied the other residents – including that whore Charlie Magne. Ugh. He was repulsed just looking at her. Once you see someone as radiant and beautiful as Angel Dust, everyone else is foul in comparison.

But, perhaps his dark prayers were finally answered. On the second floor, the tiny eye hugged the ceiling, out of sight, cloaked in shadow. And as true fate had it, _there,_ he spied the majestic Angel. Oh! Oh Angel! Beautiful Angel! Obs almost fell from his position, almost wept. Sauntering through the halls, as lovely as ever, without a care in the world. Relaxed, sublime, amazing. He needed Angel. NEEDED ANGEL. He needed TO EMPTY HIM AND FILL HIM.

His mind rattled and thoughts screamed.

_AngelAngelAngelAngelAngelAngelAngelAngelAngelAngelAngelAngel._

Soon, oh god soon.

He couldn’t help but watch. Watch him go back to his room, a utopia of pink. Ung. He salivated at everything. All the dressers, the clothing, the armies of perfume. Oh, he wished he could smell the spider, down to every inch, every frame. And touch. How he so desperately wished to touch. Perhaps soon.

He felt his root salivate when Angel went to bathe. How could his little eye not follow? Not watch the lithe, elegant frame strip down and nurture his soft, elegant fluff? The way he cleansed, moved his palms. . . oh. Heavenly. His moment. A moment only for he and Angel. No one else.

He was in a state of euphoria. For hours he watched and observed. Thinking, planning, plotting. Until. . .

HIM.

That foul, wretched shadow. Draped in a suit, a single eye of red. How horrid. Lean and dripping with menace. Obs watched his Angel go to him, peel him away from some sort of office. And the way they touched, talked, looked at each other. No. No Angel, not him! Anyone but _that!_

Why him? Because he was sweet on a pig? A foolish choice, a naïve choice. No, no, no. Wrong. All of it. Everything, WRONG.

An anguish consumed the Obsessor. Pain of everything. Rejection, isolation. How could Angel pick this _thing_ over someone like him? Someone who knew him, from his choice of mascara to the size of his toe-claw? Why, why!?

Horrified, he watched the shadow and Angel go to his room, where the talked and carried on and simpered like two. . . two. . .

_Lovers._

Venom dripped from his mandible. Awful, disgusting. Cold churning erupted in his stomach. He had to take it, had to sit there and bare the grievous wounds, watch the couple wrap themselves together, so safe and warm and wanting. Obs clutched his chest, dug into the carapace so hard he started to bleed. It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t right!

_“Stick with it babe, I’m right there with ya’.’_

NO.

He’d suffer this no more. He had to get inside. He had to fix this. He had to deal with this creature, this. . . thief. . . this _Anon._

He watched, longing, pained, hopeful. He stared at Angel with the spare eye, hung from the ceiling. He could do nothing else.

In time, he shifted. He crawled along the Hotel sides, with every intent to enter. He would stick to the shadows, the corners. Waiting and waiting and waiting.

He just needed to fix this. He would.

He found a way inside.


	2. The Obsessor - Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As you prepare the Hotel's security, something strange happens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> . . .

**The Obsessor – Part II**

How the _hell_ did you miss this?

Baxter’s laboratory was enormous, spanning several rooms in size easily. Certainly, larger than your own station by at least four times. The walls were hung with archaic machinery and a blister of lights, flicking in a spasm of different colors, machinations clicking and hissing in gear-driven prayer. Electricity jumped along coils while translucent tubes hid all manner of abominations. Tables and shelves were lined with devices looking as dangerous as they were strange, no doubt capable of rearranging one’s demonic soul like a jigsaw puzzle.

 _This_ was the man you were trusting with your security.

The air stung your skin with a hint of static. You kept your hands to _yourself,_ seeking out the ‘scientist’ responsible for your latest project. The Hotel, you discovered, lacked the cabling and infrastructure necessary for a robust security system – at least one based on cameras. Wasn’t like there were stores offering what you needed either, least of all for the Happy Hotel. So when in doubt, trust a neurotic shut-in with a penchant for developing unstable experiments. Or so you were told.

Well, you were dating a spider, how bad could _this_ be?

“Ah, hello?”

Quiet, save for the meticulous chatter of machinery and whisper of steam. Strange. You put an order through via Charlie days ago. The fellow should’ve been expecting you.

You went further in, despite your instincts telling you to turn right around. Upon inspection, this whole area was a damn fire hazard. And electric-hazard. Possibly radioactive? You hadn’t seen tech like this since you swiped from Pentious. It’d be impressive if it weren’t so troubling.

As you passed one of the shelves, looking over what appeared to be a variety of whirring apparati, the gentle _click_ of something caught your attention.

“ARMS UP!” shrieked a voice. High pitched, tense, like every vowel was stressed by danger. You did as told.

“Uh, Baxter?”

The figure shuffled around, appearing at your side, some kind of laser gun aimed square at your head.

“QUIET! How, how do you know my name? Who are you? Who sent you? Did you wash your filthy _feet!?”_

You chanced a glance, spying the short figure, sporting a lab coat and dimensions of some kind of aquatic fish. His forehead hung with a luminescent “fisherman’s” rod and his eyes were wide and distrustful, flicking over you with anxious study.

“I’m-”

“QUIET!”

It was Baxter, all right. He shuffled in front of you, the gun kept idly in your direction. Even from here, you could feel the prickle of strange energy emitting from it.

“I _know_ who you _are!_ You think I don’t _see!?_ See you and your unclean EYES? Did you even WASH THEM?”

You kept your arms raised. Were you going to die here? Haha, that’s a strange way to go.

“Well, no,” you managed. Baxter twitched, swung his gun in series of directions, like an invisible force were swooping down on him.

“AGH! No, NO! Filth, dirty! You brought them in, the DUST! You must LEAVE AT ONCE!”

You cleared your throat. “I’d love to, but. . .”

His tiny eyes locked back to you.

“I need my cameras. You know. Should be two? Wireless? Enough signal strength for, erm, enchanted walls?”

You had to assume the building had some kind of demonic energy, working similar to static interference.

Baxter blinked. And blinked a few more times, his mind processing. Then, he straightened, entire demeanor shifting.

“Yes, yes, I have your _disgusting_ cameras here.”

He gestured to a table. On said table were two clunky, weighty devices sporting a single black glass oculus, both with two thick antennae. And they blinked. They blinked!?

“Well?” snarled Baxter, expectant.

You didn’t feel like getting turned into a pool of liquid  _accident_ today. “May I move?”

“Yes. WAIT, NO. But. . . yes! YES! Hurry and take your filthy claws and your dirty cameras!”

Baxter’s arm trembled, and you half expected him to misfire and blow off your head. But, you didn’t plan on sticking around any longer, so, _cautiously_ went to the table and hoisted the cameras in question with a careful grasp. They. . . made a noise as you picked up the clunky objects, emitting a deep gurgle.

“Are these alive?” you say, turning back to Baxter. Who is no longer there. No, in fact, the scientist seems to have forgotten all about you, his head buried in a workshop of bubbling liquids and petri dishes. You can hear cold mutterings escape him, like a dread incantation. Guess you’re surviving this encounter.

You’re hasty to get back upstairs, relieved to shut the heavy iron door behind you. The “cameras” bristle, like they’re none too pleased at the exposure of bright Hotel lights. You’re none too pleased to hold them, either, so you get back to your office and set them aside – and they grumble from the lack of attention. Wonderful. Living cameras.

You’ll figure out the details of their operation later, "living" entities aside. Still, it feels good. You’re making progress. This beta run will allow you to work out the kinks in monitoring the various parts of the Hotel, something that’ll be _essential_ once the place officially opens its doors.

You’re about to leave, until a familiar figure pops his head in. Pink, soft, and spotted.

“Nuggets?”

It’s the little oink again. Still wearing your hat!

“You’re a timely one, little fella.”

You approach, but Fat Nuggets scurries off beyond the opening, squeaking playfully. You can hear the faded tap of his hooves, so you follow. He wants you to give chase. He’s gone downstairs, perhaps to hide in hopes you’ll find him, or perhaps he’s attracted to the lure of voices coming from one of the lower rooms.

Indeed, it’s evening, so downstairs is busy. Group gatherings are frequent now. Charlie is trying to make the final preparations so she can officially open the Hotel’s doors to the damned – barring no other cosmic entities like Abaddon show up again. That means everyone is kept in the loop with each other (for the most part). Especially Alastor, who seems to be spearheading ideas of his own - for good or ill, you haven't figured out.

You think you spy Fat Nuggets fly past a table, and you keep after him. Until you see a surly, hunched figure, looking grumpier than usual, sitting at said table.

You recognize the figure, and then you don't. You can’t hold back a snort of laughter as you realize what's changed. “Husk.”

His eyes flash to you, and if he frowns any harder he’ll age by a century.

You cover your mouth, snickering. “Nice suspenders.’

He growls. Husk isn’t in his usual attire. Instead he's wearing a white shirt, bowtie, and black suspenders, which accent a more _elegant_ hat and he looks like somebody put socks on his paws.

“You lookin’ to lose that other eye, funny man?”

You bury your face, choking with chortles. “Maybe you should! I wouldn’t have to see you in this!”

Husk is such a grump. You like him more these days, though. He's honest. At least he _wears_ himself on his sleeve. He doesn’t strike you as the kind to hide things, just bury everything in alcohol.

He growls.

“I’m so sorry,” you say, wiping a tear. “You poor man. Who did this to you?”

“I think he looks positively _dashing!”_

Like a shadow from the dark, Alastor does what he does: _appears._ If you weren’t so busy coughing with chuckles you might’ve been put off.

“Touch my eyebrow again and I’ll skin ya’ like venison!” threatens the winged feline as Alastor emerges. Ah, of course, it was all Ally's doing, another nefarious plot.

Alastor took place at the chimera's side, wearing his typical sociopathic sneer. But he’s different too. He’s not wearing his usual blood-colored pinstripe attire. It’s something similar to Husk, in fact, bowtie and all. Did you miss something? What was with the matching outfits?

“Oh, mister Husk! Save that vinegar for the show!” he comments, his static-laced tones a bit 'brighter' tonight.

Now Alastor looks to you, like you're back from the dead. Show?

“Ah! So, he does live. My dear boy, it feels like an age! We haven’t seen you down here for days!”

As unsettling as you find Alastor. . . you're getting used to him. You don’t mind small talk these days, even with him. You had to start getting along with everyone, even when your instincts screamed at you to keep your guard up, so if it meant trading pleasant somethings with the Radio Demon, you suppose there were worse fates. 

“I’ve been busy,” you say, amiable. “Old building. A lot of prep work.”

You gesture to he and Husk. “And I think I missed a memo.”

Alastor swung his arm around Husk’s shoulder, who tensed and bore his fangs. Were it anyone other than Alastor, they would've been sliced to meaty ribbons.

“Quite!” said the Radio Demon. “It’s all very exciting, you know? Miss Magne’s grand opening is ever closer. But what’s a spectacle without a headliner? A little song-and-dance, a Broadway number?”

You blink. “I’m sorry?”

“He’s sayin’ we’re puttin’ on a show, babe.”

The sardonic tones of your spider put you in a trance. He appears from behind you, swaggering past, sitting on table’s edge with Alastor and Husk, wearing an amused smirk, like he knew something you didn’t. Well, you didn’t, technically. He’s _also_ in an unfamiliar attire, something that, admittedly, gets your blood hot.

It’s actually quite formal – a pink suit top with form-hugging white pants, a tie bringing it all together. It’s the first time you’ve seen him in something so _proper._ What it hides, too, makes it alluring. All the curves hinted at, all the usual, silky fluff you can't see. You just want to rip it off and. . .

“Oh yes!” chimes Alastor. “What better way to demonstrate what a roaring good time the Hotel is than with a bangarang performance!”

“And _who_ better,” he continues, going to Angel, placing a white hat atop the spider’s head, “Then the city’s favorite showstopper. Although, the performance might surprise them!”

Angel shrugs. “Ey, I wanted to work the pole, but chuckles over here got his antlers in a twist about it.”

You shake your head. “That’s a pity. Wasted opportunity, Al.”

Alastor maintains his sneer. “Such antics! I’m afraid something so _robust_ interferes with Angel’s treatment. I'd be crestfallen if I interfered with sweet Miss Magne's plans. And I daresay this little number doesn’t require that particular. . . style.”

He rubbed his fingers together, possibly ignoring the mischievous implications.

“Poppin’ mollies and gettin’ skunked don’t count as treatment,” Husk growled, eager to take whatever shot he could. Angel flashed him a challenging look.

“Now, now,” Alastor cut in. “Let’s behave gents. We still need to rehearse.”

“Fuck you,” said Husk.

“Hoh! That’s the spirit.”,

You’re trying to imagine this entire fiasco in your head, especially the idea of Alastor doing _anything_ besides looking like a malignant psychopath bent on stealing your skin, or something.

"We're gonna' blow them the fuck up!" said Angel, waving his spare hands.

"Away, you mean!" corrected Alastor.

"Nope!"

Now, your spider's gaze comes to you. Those eyes. You miss them.

Angel gestured for you. “The fuck are you still doin’ over there, pockets? Where’s my kiss?”

Ah, of course. Not like you needed coaxing, and your chase for Fat Nuggets will have to take a pause. You oblige, going to him, feeling the spider embrace you, your lips meeting in brief. You clutch his hips, and you could stay like this for the rest of your life. Husk makes a sort of wretching noise and swiftly “excuses” himself from the table. You can feel Alastor’s eyes, but you don’t care.

“Save the fireworks for later, gents,” you hear him say. “That _is_ a new suit, after all.”

Angel snickers. “No promises.” His mouth is so close to yours you can feel the heat of his breath.

You clear your throat. “I’ll keep the nightstick holstered.”

“Let’s hope for the table’s sake that’s true!”

You think you hear Alastor saunter off, probably to chase down Husk, leaving you a moment alone with Angel.

“Nice hat, sexy,” you say.

Angel beams. He picks it off his head, twirling it with a digit.

“Nyep. I pull it off better,” he chides, winking. “Whatcha’ doin’ here? Thought you were busy bein’ all ‘long dick of the law’.”

Brr. Your proximity to his curvy frame might make that phrase more literal in a second.

“Following my deputy, actually,” you say.

“Nmm? Deputy?”

Either hearing his master’s voice or realizing you weren’t right behind him, Fat Nuggets reappears with an imbalanced sprint, falling over himself as he collides into your leg, running around you two in circles. Angel looks delighted, clapping his extra hands together.

“N’oh! Nuggy!”

Angel’s swift to snag his precious oink, breaking your embrace, but you don’t mind. He hugs Nuggets, looking between you and the pig with an expression of adoration.

“Aww, m’little squeaky peachie troublemaker!”

He gives the oink a doting smooch, cradling him in extra arms, noting _your_ hat. Well, your old hat.

Fat Nuggets, of course, is _delighted_ at all the attention, crowing with victorious squeaks.

“What’s this I hear about you bein’ a deputy, huh?”

Angel Dust prods the pig’s nose with a finger, causing Nuggets to wiggle, hat falling over his eyes.

“You didn’t know? He’s my new helper. Deputy Nuggets, assistant to the Head of Hotel Security.”

Angel Dust snorts. “Da’fuck? Am I hearin’ this right? _My Anon,_ my mister ‘I’m gonna’ steal from banks n’ shit’ Anon takin' his job seriously? With m’little Nugs?”

When you hear it out loud, it’s kind of hard to believe, isn’t it?

“Yep.”

Angel Dust blinks, looking at you a while. Then he just. . . smiles. Not a smirk, nor grin, nor something wry and flirty. Just a smile.

He kisses you once more. “I’m proud of ya’.”

You feel the heat of his love pour into you, and you _have_ to embrace him. Hold him close. He’s still got Nuggets. You're all held together, a little trio, like it's own little world. A regular family photo op, eh?

“Don’t do that again or I’ll rip your suit off," you say, voice low and wanting, meaning his kiss.

 _Now_ Angel Dust grins.

“Mmf, if I didn’t like my new threads so much. . .”

You squeeze his rear. It’ll have to do.

“All right, all right, _fuck._ Let’s try to get through one day without breaking furniture,” you say. You’ve got responsibilities now, gotta keep it together.

Angel Dust laughs. “Kay, who da’fuck are you and what’d you do with my thief?”

You pull him closer, much to the protest of Nuggets, who was squished in Angel’s chest fluff.

“Technically security now,” you say.

“Better arrest me for bad behavior then,” he shoots back, voice low and inviting. You feel his spare hand come to your crotch.

“Mmm. Didn’t say anything about _your_ suit," Angel purrs.

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

You and he find a corner to hide behind while he proceeds to jack you off.

-*-

It’s late. You manage to catch Niffty and the Goat Bois before you start your “new” routine, whereby you ask the trio to help you set up the strange cameras Baxter made for you. The Bois are more than happy to oblige, putting one above the entrance to the Hotel foyer. This, in theory, lets you see who comes and goes – assuming a successful opening of the place. They bleat and bah after you thank them, while you provide a cookie as payment, proceeding back upstairs. They're quick to munch it down.

Niffty. . . makes things difficult. You just want another camera stationed on the first hallway floor, at the end of the corridor. Nothing invasive. Enough that you can observe the efficiency of angles and screen quality from your office. But as you hand the clunky object off to her, suggesting to hang it off the wall, she’s erratic and can’t settle down.

“Here!?” she’d say, zipping around this way and that. “Oh, nononono! Here! How about here? Oh, I think it matches the wallpaper here, or, probably there. Hmm, maybe. . . wait, WAIT, IS THAT A BUG!?”

In a state of insect-killing rage, she’d dropped the object. It’d have been a mess of machine and eye if you didn’t catch it, and this is probably the last time you’ll ask her to help you with something “delicate.” Bless her insane soul. Well, you make it work, at any rate, finding a spot on the wall. The camera isn’t as high as you'd like, but it’ll do for now.

When you return to your security office, it’s a matter of syncing the screens with the camera signals. It’s not easy – the control yolk provided by Charlie is dated, to put it mildly, a heavy, square flank of metal with dials, nobs, and archaic buttons. You remember requesting something that syncs with the mechanism’s frequency, but even as you twist dials to get a signal, the pictures come in blurry and eroded on your family of monitors. It’s a start, but you’re a long way off from something usable. Either the interference is as you initially thought – arcane in nature – or they’re too weak. You have to remember, this isn’t a bank, this is a potentially _living_ structure. On more than one occasion you’ve seen a door blink at you.

You bury your nose in work again. It’s all you can do to keep yourself preoccupied with stable thoughts. Loathe as you are to admit it, this is not heist. This isn’t a mark or a grand plan. It’s no casino. It’s no high-stakes thrills with one of Angel’s old buddies. It’s just work. Meticulous, pensive work, certainly, but you’re not getting the same _rush._ The ends aren’t really as exciting. Sure it's. . . grandiose. But is it really you?

The safety of everyone – how noble. How valiant and courageous, altruistic even. Things you aren’t. Things that aren't stealing.

Again, you distract yourself with cheap cigarettes and cheaper brandy. The room stinks of your newfound sins, and you lose track of time. So much you don’t hear the annoyed grunt of your spider.

“He missed ya’.”

Your gaze snaps upward from a blueprint. It’s Angel again. Just like the other night, he’s in attire ready for bed. Devil below, what fucking time was it?

He’s not alone though. Happy, wiggling Fat Nuggets is in his grasp, who’s over the moon to see you.

You smile. “Hey baby.”

Angel tosses you an expected sigh. “Can’t smooth talk yer way outta’ this one, toots. You’re a real palooka, doing the whole solo act again. The hell’s your problem?”

Shit. Is he mad?

“Oh. Uh.”

Angel raises a hand. “S’fine, Anon. I get it. Ya’ workin. I understand.”

He saunters forward, placing Nuggets on the floor, who proceeds to speed toward you, nosing your ankle like a high-speed pig missile. You oblige him with pets.

Damn. In your haste, you’re forgetting the most important fucking thing in the world to you: Angel.

“I’m sorry,” you say. “Time just got away from me.”

“I told ya’ it’s fine. Thought you’d be lonely, so I brought the little fuck. He’s happy as shit, see?”

Angel grins, pointing, and he’s not wrong. Fat Nuggets is beside himself, flopping at your foot. Awh. You’re getting a soft spot for the little guy.

The spider comes to you, leaning, smooching your forehead. _“Please_ come to bed soon. Ain’t fond of this one-man show stuff.”

Ouch. Not only is the new work not quite as fulfilling as an adrenalin laced score, you’re neglecting your boyfriend. Fuckity fuck, what a "great" feeling.

“I will, I will,” you quickly say, taking his hand and squeezing, apologetic. “I promise. Just a few things to get through.”

You comfort him with a smooch too, though you can see the tense yearning on his face. He yawns, and you want to ask him about his day. But if you wanted to do that, should’ve organized your work, eh?

“Yeah, well. Nugs _shouldn’t_ be up, so make sure he goes to sleep. No food either, he’ll get bad dreams. Scratch his ears if he ain’t sawin' logs, kay?”

You glance at the pig, who’s enjoying a nibble on your shoestrings. “You’re leaving him with me?”

Angel offers a small, warm smile. He sees how you and Nuggets are starting to bond.

“He _really_ likes ya’. He kept goin’ to the door, fussin’. Ya’ take care of my sweetie boy, ya’ hear me?”

He grants you one more kiss. Shit, it’s like a drug. Just one more.

“I will,” you promise. You damn sure will, because if you don’t Angel will _fuck you up._

He gives you a light hug. “N’mmhm. Don’t stay up too long.”

Angel flicks one of the empty brandy glasses. “And drink some better-quality hooch, Anon, goddamn.”

Without another word, he swaggers off, his hips dancing in gentle sways. Hard to. . . focus. . . while he does that. When he does inevitably exit, though, you get back to work with renewed haste. Get on with it, your spider misses you and you _really_ miss him.

At the least, there isn’t much left to do for the night. While the screens are still a blurry mess, you set up a landline phone, which, theoretically, can call every room in the Hotel, while receiving calls from them too. Like a lot of things it’s old, vintage hardware, but guess Charlie had quite the specific style in mind. It works, and that’s all you need.

By the time you get things wired it’s. . . holy fuck, almost midnight!? God _damn,_ Angel was going to split you in two. You’re going to have to make it up to him later. Maybe dinner. Maybe just spend the whole day with him. Something.

Nuggets, at least, is curled into a ball of sleeping pig, so mission success there. You softly stroke him, careful not to disturb him. Nice and peaceful.

And then the phone rings.

Excuse you?

You snap your attention to it. You’re a little confused, that wasn’t supposed to happen. Was it? Huh. Was someone testing the other line? Maybe Charlie? No, no way, she was likely asleep. Vaggie was too, they were sharing rooms now as far as you knew. Was it Alastor? It’d certainly be like him to fuck with you. Well, no, he didn't really operate phones or anything beyond radios. Husk? Doubtful. Fella' got drunk and he'd tell you to piss off straight to your face. Baxter? The Bois? Niffty?

_Who?_

Well, the phone doesn’t stop chiming, and it’s bothering Nuggets, so you pick it up.

“Hello?”

Silence. Silence and static. This had to be some kind of error.

Then. . .

_“Hello Anon.”_

What?

The voice creeping through is entirely unrecognizable. It’s cold, broken, and distorted. It’s high pitched, yet low. It’s like several things are chattering at once. You can hear breathing. There isn’t a single soul in all of Hell you’ve met that sounds like this. It's. . . _wrong._

“Who is this?”

The voice maintains a strange, controlling tone.

_“That’s not important.”_

Red fucking flags. You don’t need to be an expert on phones to know this isn’t the friendly sort. You don’t know who it is, or where the call is coming from, or _how it’s even happening._ You're not playing games.

“I beg to fucking differ, buddy. How’d you get this number? Who is-”

_“You were a foster child in the Strawberry Fields orphanage, circa New York, mid 80’s. Your father was an alcoholic and your mother was a drug addict. You’ve been in Hell for approximately one year. You came to the Hotel two months ago.”_

You freeze. You fucking freeze.

_“You wore a stolen Brook’s Brothers suit and preferred to keep a sidearm on your right side. 1911. You robbed one of the gangs and made $2,432 your first time.”\_

It's like time stops. Your whole world collapses. Like something exhumed fragments of  _you_ and fingered around them like a wriggling worm. These things,  _these things._ These were memories. Memories. Impossible fragments of information of such vague, abstract timing even you didn't know them with this level of clarity. Your head starts to spin.

You bristle. Something consumes you, like ice. Every hackle on your body raises and a dread chill sweeps you up like a black storm. **_Who the fuck was this?_**

It had to be an ex-gangbanger. Had to be. Had to. . . but. But then, what they were saying? How? HOW DID THEY KNOW? Nobody, _nobody_ knew this. NOBODY. You didn’t even tell Angel. You didn’t even _know about your parents._

It continues. _“. . .and right now you’re looking at one of the Hotel schematics. You’ve marked the first and second-floor layouts in red. Floor one and two.”_

You clench the phone so hard you think you might crack it. Immediately, your eyes fly around the room. Where? HOW? This person had to be spying on you from somewhere. This wasn’t possible. This wasn’t happening. You looked up, in every corner of the room, hoping to catch an object, a person, anything. _Anything._

 _“_ Who _. The fuck. Are you.”_

There’s a pause. Then the same distorted voice crackles through.

_“Angel Dust is sleeping. He’s on his left side. He’s wearing. . . mmm. Black lace. His left arm is curled under his pillow, and he smells like roses.”_

A spike of rage and terror erupts in your chest. How, how, HOW? Angel, Jesus fucking Christ, Angel was in trouble!

You were getting swallowed up, like a great abyssal maw appeared and engulfed you. It was happening too fast, like a switch. One moment you were adjusting the office and preparing to sleep, now? NOW? The very fabric of your life was penetrated, and you didn't even know who or what or how. You were blind in the dark.

You want to say something but what, what can you possibly do? 

_Wait, wait, WAIT. How do they know this!? Is he in the other room!? How?_

Your mind hurts trying to comprehend this. Nothing is adding up. The logic is breaking apart.

Your free hand curls, shaking.

_“Don’t clench so hard, you’ll bleed.”_

Chills scream up your spine.

“You’ve got my attention,” you challenge, trying to stay calm. But you can’t. Fear is eating you from within. Not for yourself but for your spider. You’re paralyzed. If you try to rush, you could put Angel in danger.

How much does this fuck know?

_“I watched you. Last night.”_

W-what the hell was it talking about?

“ _And_ _I watched you today. How he touches you, and looks at you. But I also watched him.”_

. . .

A feeling of undefinable rage is storming inside you. No. No. NO. Then anxiety, desperation. No. Not this.

_“He smells so good. His choice of conditioner varies based on the day. When he presses his hands into his chest, his tongue touches his teeth. He takes forty-seven minutes to put on makeup.”_

You hiss. “Shut your fucking mouth.”

_“When you touch him, you squeeze his leg, and spread him. He nibbles your neck, generally four times.”_

You slam the desk, causing Fat Nuggets to jump with a frightened start.

“What THE FUCK DO YOU WANT?”

There’s a lingering pause, and the air feels cold. You look around again, in vain, hoping you might catch the thing in the act. But there’s no one, just darkness.

_“I want Angel.”_

Fucking hell. Fucking hell. No. You’re supposed to protect Angel Dust and you were failing catastrophically. And your worst fear was coming to light - someone was after your spider. Who? How? Was it Arackniss? The brother? The family?

“If you come near him,” you growl, “You don’t want to fucking know what I’ll do to you.”

It ignores you. _“I’m going to be inside him.”_

You nearly break the phone.  _"_ If you touch him. . ."

What else could you possibly fucking say? You’re helpless, and this thing doesn’t even acknowledge your threats.

_“I want to see you. I want to see why. I want to understand.”_

A pang of dark, hateful relief springs inside you. “You want to _meet_ me?”

 _“In the dark,”_ it says. _“So I can see. I want to see. And when I see, you won’t. And then. . . I will taste Angel.”_

Your screens flicker. As do your lights. Everything shudders. There’s a strange, low pitched whine in the building. The lamps blink, heave, and then. . . it all goes black. It’s dark. You can hardly see.

_“If you try to warn them, I will hurt them.”_

You do your best to stay calm, control your breath. It’s hard, though. You’re shaking from a mix of fury and fear. You want to clench this thing’s neck. You want to hurt it. You want to break it. Make it scream. And if you fucking find it, _you will._

By them, too, you figure it means Charlie and the rest. Assuming they don’t already know what’s going on.

“ _There’s a flashlight in the second drawer to your right. You’ll need it.”_

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

“You sure you want to do this?” you shoot back.

 _“Angel is lonely,”_ it says. “ _I’ll give him company when this is done.”_

Click.

You’re trying to process everything. A hundred questions are splintering into a thousand more, hitting you every moment, every second. Dread fear chokes you, fear for your Angel. He was in danger. _He was in fucking danger._ You didn’t protect him. You weren’t good enough. You didn’t stop whatever _this_ was.

And. . . and they _saw you._ They saw your most private moments. They looked. They spied Angel in his most intimate, vulnerable places. This wasn’t like a skin-flick or porno mag where Angel showed what he wanted you to see. This fucker was invading. Invading your life, your world.

You don’t even hear the buzz of the phone as it goes dead. You throttle it so hard you snap it in half. There’s something else. Some other terrible, horrible feeling. It’s familiar. A rush of fury. Frozen, cold, unforgiving, unrepentant. It’s tiny, it’s a fragment, it’s the smallest speck of dust in an otherwise endless ocean of you. But it’s there. It’s there, this fragment, and it’s coaxed to life by this intruder. It’s hatred. Absolute hatred.

With it, a voice. A voice like a whisper from a distant mountain. A voice you recognize.

_Let me out._

Devil. No. No. Please, not what you think.

But you can’t resist it. You have to sate it. Something new and terrible is hungry inside you. This threat from the shadows is like flashfire.

You’re going to be sick. Amidst this volcano of feelings, this rawness, you can hardly think. So badly you try to visualize whatever it was calling you. So badly, because you want to tear it apart. Bit by bloody bit. But the other part is frightened, frightened for Angel. Oh, my fucking fuck, he’s being watched. Your precious spider _is being watched_ and you can’t fucking do a thing about it.

Except find them. And you will. _You will. You have to._

And when you do, **nothing in hell will save them from you.**

It’s dark. It’s dark and black and hard to see. You reach for the drawer, pulling out the mentioned flashlight, staring at it like was a profane object. It doesn’t comfort you, it disgusts you because the thing on the other side _knew_ about it.

You didn’t even know if it was inside the Hotel, but you had to try to find it. Find something. Anything.

You flick the light on and a dim beam of illumination catches the objects around you. Shifting shadows move and weave as you get a feel for its brightness. Fat Nuggets prods your leg, and you nearly jump but control yourself. He offers a weak, concerned oink.

“Nuggets,” you say, voice sharp. “Someone’s in our home, and we have to find them. Do you understand?”

He grumbles, tilting his head.

“Good.”

You have something excessive for all this. A suppressed Tec-9 set to single fire for occasions of personal security. You didn’t think it’d be necessary.

But here you fucking are. You take it from your “closet,” and then go to the door, pushing it open. The Hotel halls are pitch black and deathly quiet. You can’t even hear the city.

Something has gone horribly, horribly wrong.

Nuggets is with you, though he hides behind your leg. You keep the flashlight held forward, stepping out into a hall you don’t quite recognize, to a feeling you haven’t experienced in a long, long time.

[Fear.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GUQUD3IMbb4)


	3. The Obsessor - Part III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You find yourself in places strange, though get help from an unexpected source.

**The Obsessor - Part III**

**This is not your home.**

An unnatural dark has consumed your vision, broken only by the frail rays of your torch, casting a dull eye of light on the eclipsed Hotel interior. A strange, ethereal film rests on the shapes of your surroundings, like living shadows crawling along wood and wall and ceiling. It shudders from illumination, recoiling at the invader. You can’t see far, and every turn produces a new labyrinth of dark.

The air is heavy, thick, quiet. If there is sound, it’s something you can’t describe. Not whispers nor mutterings, not screams nor voices, there is simply _noise._ Like a wind carrying conversations in languages that shouldn’t be, enunciating vowels that are _not._

No. What is this? _What is this?_ This isn’t the Hotel, it can’t be. It’s shifted, changed, _mutated._ You assumed, at first, it was a power outage, that the invader had found a way to circumvent something inside the building, like cutting a circuit. But this was worse, far worse. Not only was the perpetrator peering into _you_ like a splayed book, they had. . . thrown you into something. A void, an abyss, a _realm._ What other explanation was there that could describe any of this?

You took slow, _slow_ steps down the hallway. Fat Nuggets was close, right at your heels, shivering and squeaking. You didn’t blame him, you were both surrounded by _oblivion._ You listened for anything that might indicate a threat or perpetrator, but you could scarcely make out your own footsteps. The suppressed Tec-9 was in your other hand, but it did little to put you at ease. How could the demonic weapon repel living shadows, a moving dark?

Fright clutched your chest. Every moment you were “here” was another second his thing remained inside. Remained in the Hotel. Watching you. Watching Angel Dust. Fucking fuck. You didn’t even want to imagine what was happening. Did the spider even know? Was he even aware? What if he was helpless? What if the intruder had gotten to him already? What if this was all bait?

_Come on, ease up. He can take care of himself. He’s got a knife for every occasion, for crying out loud._

No, no, no. This was different. This wasn’t like some gangbanger or druggie. Not a monster or foe you could see. This was alien and indescribable. Would bullets even work then, once you confronted whatever this was? How were you even going to _deal_ with this?

_Simple._

You froze. Nuggets walked into you, looking up, uncertain. You clenched your teeth. There was something else here, something familiar, something you didn’t want. A presence. A fragment. A piece. A tiny spark in a sea of blackness, weak, fragile, but always there. Eternal and unending.

Focus. Focus! Get a hold of yourself, goddammit. Were you really going to let this get to you? _You?_ You’ve been “almost dead” more times than you can count, tossed into places you couldn’t even imagine. Fuck the shadows. _You were the shadows._ Get your shit together, because if you don’t, someone’s going to hurt Angel. They’re going to do things to him, things you don’t want to entertain, things that sleep in the deepest recesses of your fearful mind.

You don’t care what happens to you. But Angel? No, god no, you’d never forgive yourself if anyone touched him, hurt him. So tighten the fuck up, _Head of Security,_ and do your job. Protect what belongs to you. Your home, your family, your spider.

Nuggets, in the meantime, is pressed into your ankle, trembling.

“Hey,” you whisper, flashing the light on him. The ground writhes at the light, and it puts a cold feeling in you.

“Hey, it’s okay buddy. It’s okay,” you say, patting him. “We gotta’ be brave, okay? We have to protect our home.”

The piglet looks up at you again, eyes wide. But. . . he seems to understand. You nod, looking around.

“Any ideas, Deputy?”

Nuggets looked away, ahead of you. Or tried to, it was hard to make anything out. Without the light you two would be swallowed by a maw of darkness. He nosed you again after a troubled stare, shuffling forward. Did he want you to follow?

Probably so. His flat nose sniffed at the ground, and bit by bit he padded forward. You kept the light squarely on him, maintaining your guard, glancing every direction you figured a foe might appear from. Not that it did you any good, it was so bloody pitch you couldn’t even see the weapon in your hand. But the oink kept his ears flagged, nose attentive, forming a path. He was your guide. Without him, you’d be completely, utterly lost.

Did eons pass? Millennia? Time was abstract and meaningless. Your steps were heavy and it was though each minute was clogged by a temporal molasses. You wanted to rush forward, find something, _anything,_ but it would be a useless gesture. In fact, without Nuggets, you realized you might’ve been doomed. Dead? Maybe not. But trapped here all the same. Trapped while that fucking _thing_ had its way. Thank the Devil for the little pig, then. Was he an angel? Did he have wings? He was your savior now.

Eventually, his sniffing led you two to stairs, the ones winding down to the lower rooms and foyer. It dawned on you then: this place was a dread reflection of the Hotel. Like it’s literal shadow. It was as though you were drifting through its essence, or at least, some sort of “between.” Between what? You had no idea. It was familiar too, viscous. . . like the sensation you got when near Alastor. So, how did you get here? And how did you get back?

Well, questions for later. Nuggets found something, so you scooped him up and made your way downstairs, _slowly._ It was hard to see with the pig taking up the torch-arm, but you made do, eventually finding yourself on the lower level. Here, could see some of the windows, expecting frail pink-red light to seep through. But there was nothing, just more inescapable dark. No escape then, not that you were planning on it.

You set him back down, shining the light here and there. No one. You weren’t sure whether to feel relieved or enraged. You _needed_ to find them.

A low oink broke your attention. Nuggets was gazing at you, expectant, again wanting you to follow. So you did. Never were you so thankful to have a pig at your side.

As beckoned, you followed along, passing through “familiar” parts of the Hotel. You passed the table from earlier, save it was like a ghost, a dark shape with no friends sitting at it. What you wouldn’t give to see Husk’s frown right now. Even Alastor’s menacing grin would do.

Fat Nuggets shrieked, running forward. You cursed as he abruptly vanished into the dark, the shadows consuming him in an instant.

_“Nuggets!”_

What the fuck possessed him to do that!? You bolted forward, losing track of the oink, throwing your light around, trying to locate him. Terror ate every fiber of your being, like a sick, anxious nausea choking your lungs. If you lost him, Angel would kill you. Fuck that, if you lost him, you might not see anyone _ever again._

“Oh?”

Confusion replaced fear. You dashed through several rooms, a familiar voice snagging your concentration.

Transatlantic. Static laced.

A light appeared. Not yours, a timid glimmer in an otherwise veil of black. A small, ghostly candle, a frail star in a dead cosmos. It resided upon a table, washing a form with fragile light. A form dressed in scarlet. You threw your light in its direction.

“. . .Alastor?”

Speak of the devil, he may appear.

Eyes of dreary scarlet snapped to you, and that ever-familiar crescent grin coalesced into view. Alastor blinked, looking like he’d been slapped by a particularly salty fish, Fat Nuggets at his ankle. The pig stared up at the Radio Demon with curious, but cautious, enthuse, oinking at you happily when you made your way over.

You couldn’t believe it.

Alastor snapped something shut – a book – crossing his leg.

“My dear boy,” he started, brows raised. “What ever are you doing in here?”

You didn’t know whether to feel enraged or relieved. It was him then, wasn’t it? Who else could pull you into a fucking place like this?

You raised the Tec-9, aimed squared at his face. “You’ve got five seconds to start to talking before I blow a goddamn hole in your head.”

Alastor threw his head back with laughter, slapping his knee. “How terribly rude!”

He set the book aside, hand going to the candle. “Put that silly thing away before _someone gets hurt.”_

You weren’t fucking around. “I’m gonna’ break every tooth in that fucking face of yours if you do-”

He raised a hand. “My young friend, I’m not sure what’s gotten your bees in a twitter, but if you continue to threaten me. . .”

He stood, face going dark, piercing rims of scarlet staring into you, staring into your soul.

_“They won’t ever find what’s left of you.”_

You grimaced. Not out of fear, despite the power radiating from this smarmy spook, but because he could easily pull it off.

He straightened, turning with the candle, pressing it against other pillars of wax. Soon, tiny families of little flames were born, granting some measure of light in an otherwise world of shadows. When his gaze came back to you, you’d lowered your gun.

“That’s a good lad, these carpets were just replaced.”

Fat Nuggets, oblivious to the tension, scuttled back to you, relieved from the light.

“You think this is fucking funny?”

Alastor set down the candle. “I think it’s quite disruptive, in fact. Again, I ask you Anon, what _are you doing in here?”_

You blinked. Was it in Alastor’s nature to bullshit you? After everything that had happened? He looked at you – and aside from his unwavering grin – looked genuinely perplexed.

“You brought me here!” you accused.

Alastor pressed a hand into his chest, laughing again. “Brought you to the _In Between?_ To my little home away from home? Never take up law, Anon, you’d be a right terrible prosecutor. No, I’m afraid I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

Your features softened. Oh, shit.

Alastor took seat again, leg crossed, arms reclining. “My young friend, it seems you’ve taken _quite_ the left turn.”

“I. . .”

Speechless, you were speechless. In your haste to find a guilty party, you assumed it was Al. Hard not to, the demon was an apparent dealmaker and an all around fucker-of-fates. He was half the reason Hox wasn’t here anymore. But. . . it wasn’t him.

Your mind swims with questions. Your head hurts.

“Sorry,” you blurt out. You did kinda just point a fucking gun at his head.

He chuckles. “Quite all right. You seem _stressed._ Trouble in paradise? Needed a break from the old ball and chain?”

Was he talking about Angel?

“This isn’t a joke,” you assert. “I don’t know what this is, or how I. . . fuck. Alastor, listen to me. Someone’s inside the Hotel. Someone bad. They’re, fuck, I don’t know, they could see me and Angel and everything and. . .”

He raised a hand. “Take a breath.”

You rub your temple, and Nuggets noses at you, trying to comfort you.

You start over. “Someone. . . called me. And they knew things, about me, that I didn’t even know. I don’t know how to put it. But they were impossible things, Al! You wouldn’t know them unless you were me, or. . . Christ, I don’t know. I don’t understand this. I don’t even know where the fuck I am!”

Alastor blinks, musing over your words. “Good thing you were never a radio host, you’d have lost your broadcasting license in a day, hoho!”

You leered at him. Did he just not care or was he even listening?

“Well,” he started. “Quite a precarious predicament! Right out of a thriller, it is! Strange phone calls and stolen memories!”

Alastor gestured around him. “You’re at the In Between, Anon! Gracious lad, this is no place for the faint of heart. Nothing exists here and _everything_ exists here. In fact. . .”

He studies you, and you don’t like how his eyes roam over you at all.

“You shouldn’t even be alive.”

You grunt. “Heard that one before.”

Alastor tossed his arm, as if in jubilation. “How true! I’m terribly fascinated, I must admit! Anon, my dear boy, a soul cannot exist here. Not a weak one, anyway, and yet there you stand, looking the picture of health!”

What? Well, whatever, who cares? This wasn’t getting you anywhere.

“This doesn’t explain anything!”

Alastor tapped his fingers together. “On the contrary. . . hmm! So, you say a stranger called you? Why, I didn’t even know we had working phones!”

“Yeah, well, I guess we did,” you cut back. “And they told me things that. . . that. Fuck. I’ve never even told Angel, or anyone.”

“Oh my! That is serious. What _haven’t_ you told your four-armed friend these days?”

You grimace. “Al, for once in your goddamn life, take something seriously.”

At once, Alastor snapped up, arms coming behind his back. Uh, shit, did you piss him off?

“Now, young man! You listen here! I’m taking this _quite_ seriously. You’re a stranger in a strange land and your knees are no doubt wobbly, but I won’t hear any more of your lip. Young buck! Still growing those antlers, but you forget yourself.”

He looked down at you, eyes flickering, the shadows around him screaming and shifting, like they were at his very beck and call. Fat Nuggets squeaked and hid, terrified.

_“Don’t. Forget. Who. I. Am.”_

You so dearly wanted to shoot back, but agitating perhaps the _only_ person capable of getting you “home” wasn’t the wisest of ideas. You said nothing.

At once, his expression of malice eased, like nothing happened.

“You say we have an intruder,” he said, calm. “If our Head of Security believes there’s a threat, so be it! But I need information. So, if you say this person knew things about you, then. . .”

A pause. Then:

“Soul Sight.”

What now?

“Should I know this?”

Alastor chuckled. “You? No. But unless you’ve opened yourself like a fresh wound to a party unknown, it’s the only explanation. Your mystery caller stared into your soul and tore it open like Christmas morning. Soul Sight would let them, you see. Let them sort through your memories, even if you can’t remember, for a soul remembers all its in proximity to.”

The revelation clicks. It’s like a puzzle piece has fit. That would make some sense, at least, but it didn’t explain everything.

“It was just a call, though,” you protest. “There wasn’t anyone in the room.”

“Are you sure?”

You scoff. “I used to hide zips of dope behind insulation, Al. I would’ve noticed someone.”

Alastor paced a moment, the frail candlelight bouncing off his pale, greyish flesh.

“Perplexing! Soul Sight requires the demon _physically_ see you. Quite close, in fact. No spyglasses allowed!”

You rubbed your head.

“Something else though,” he continued. “You’re here. Which means they _sent_ you here. But you’re also still out _there.”_

Now you’re getting a headache. “What?”

Alastor looks back to you. “I come here to get away from things, you see. Oh, it’s so stressful organizing a show number! Sometimes it’s nice to read a book in the throes of oblivion, quite relaxing. But I come and go as I please. This secret admirer of yours, well. They’ve snared you like a fly in a web.”

“They’ve put you in something of a trance, my dear boy. You’re out there. More of a husk, really. But your soul is _here._ Methinks they were hoping you’d fall apart and well, _dispose_ of your vulnerable shell. Quite a nasty little trick, this.”

The words fall on you like an avalanche. What? You were out there? Where? In the Hotel? The real Hotel?

“Or. . .” says the Radio Demon, coming to your side. “Perhaps they want your body instead. Either way, it didn’t pan out for them. You’ve thrown a wrench into their antics, my dear boy. You’ve a knack for foiling plans.”

You almost forget you’re holding a flashlight and weapon. You briefly set them aside, falling into the couch. You don’t care it’s made of writhing shadows, you need to sit the fuck down.

“Soul Sight and futzing with the In Between. Quite a nasty one, this stranger,” says Alastor, looking down at you.

You force a smile. “You almost sound like you respect him.”

“Certain it’s a he?”

You don’t care to respond. You’re trying to figure this out in your head.

“So the fucker saw me. Somehow. And they dug through my memories. That’s. . . how they know all this. But, what, because they saw me they threw me in here?”

Alastor shook his head. “More of a dreary lullaby. You heard them on a phone, yes? What did they sound like?”

You don’t want to even reflect on it. You explain, briefly, it was like a bunch of voices, a chorus of horrid words strewn together.

“That would do it,” mused the Radio Demon. “Certainly explains your current predicament.”

Sensing the “danger” has passed, Fat Nuggets appears from hiding again, timid candlelight fluttering over him, the pig coming to hide behind your legs.

“Then how the fuck do I get ‘out’ of my predicament? Can’t you help? Can’t you get me out?”

Alastor tilts his head, tapping his chin. “Anon, I must confess, I’ve _never_ seen another mortal soul in these parts quite like this. I’m here, you see, as _me._ You’re like these shadows, here, but not. If I took you back, why, that’s a regular Hindenburg waiting to happen! In short, taking you back as my number two could get. . .”

He licked his lips. “Messy.”

A point to Fat Nuggets. “As well, I’m afraid you’d leave him behind in the process.”

You glanced to the pig. Well, out of the fucking question then.

Alastor feigns rolling up his sleeves. “I’m afraid you’ll have to do this the old-fashioned way! Giving this no-gooder the ol’ heave ho!”

You stare at Al, unsurprised. “So you’re not helping me.”

“I never said that!”

You can’t tell if he’s playing his usual games, or if this too is unfamiliar territory. Hah. The Radio Demon, all powerful, yet, perhaps as ignorant as you. Then again, the more you think it through the more he could cause problems by proximity. What did the stranger say? He’d hurt someone if you tried to warn the others? Wasn’t like you could get him to tell Charlie. Alastor’s presence might cause them to do something rash.

“As for finding the exit, that’s a matter of locating the source. If they snared you in here, it means a partition of their soul is wandering around too. Or I’d guess. How rude! My sanctuary’s been desecrated!”

You nodded, calming, or trying to. “They did say they wanted to ‘meet’ me.”

Alastor tapped his hands together. “Wonderful! You have a fan, and they want an autograph.”

One you’re more than _happy_ to ‘sign,’ if the pen is a blunt instrument and the picture this thing’s face.

“So I find them,” you say. “Then what?

Alastor grants a dark chuckle. “Use your imagination.”

It’s quite strange. For the first time since meeting him, Alastor has put you at _ease._ This entity, this figure from places unknown, someone with a wellspring of power you don’t quite understand which – by all accounts – should put the fear of death in you, has helped you feel. . . better. Well, better like you’re going from surgery to a dentist, but, at least you’re not completely alone.

“Simple enough,” you muse bitterly.

“Isn’t it always?”

You pause, reflecting. It’s hard to sort through all this in one go. A few minutes ago you were fumbling around in endless oblivion, and now you had a vague picture of the entity threatening you and Angel. Then, your mind screamed, your heart cold. Angel was still in trouble!

“Alastor!”

Your sudden burst makes his ears wiggle.

“I need a favor. Please.”

His grin gets a little wider. “Why! I don’t think I’ve ever repaid you for pulling our keesters out of the fire since the Destroyer business. Name it, my young friend.”

“I need you to protect Angel.”

Asking _Alastor_ to protect someone is like asking a serial killer not to knife a bunch of innocent singing kids wearing signs that say “please stab me in the face.” But, if _anyone_ can keep the spider out of harm’s way, it’d be this malignant bastard.

He quirks a brow. “Ah?”

You realize what you’re saying. “I guess. . . everyone technically. But he’s after Angel, completely. Like I said, he knew things he shouldn’t have. He. . . wants to hurt him or. . .”

You can’t even say it.

Alastor nods, understanding. “Well, we can’t have a showstopper without our main act, can we? I’ll see to it the silk-spinner sleeps soundly.”

You shake your head. “No, no, I need you to get him _out_ of his room. They’re looking at him, right now Al. Just, wake him up, get him downstairs, anything. But you can’t let them know we know, all right?”

Alastor chuckles again. “Should I be taking notes?”

You don’t respond. In the meantime, the Radio Demon slips out a pocketwatch, checking it. “Goodness. It’s late. I doubt he’ll be roused easily, my dear boy.”

You wave a hand. “Just offer him a tab or a drink or something. He’ll take you up on it.”

Alastor blinks. “Excuse me? A tab?”

You nod, like he _should_ know. Well, he should, right? He’s been around.

“Yes. Acid. Or a buzzer, molly, something.”

Alastor says nothing. You grumble.

“Go into my room and look in the desk drawer. Plastic bag. Just trust me, all right?”

Alastor looks a touch uncomfortable.

“Don’t expect me to partake.”

The thought, even in all this, is briefly amusing.

“Very well,” he continues. “We’ll draw the arachnid from slumber with some good old fashioned relapse!”

“It’s not a relapse,” you protest. You _assert._ “Look, trust me all right? Can you do this? It’s important Al, I’d never forgive myself if anything happened.”

He raises a hand, reassuring. “Of course, of course. I’ll keep an eye on him as though he were the object of my _obsession_.”

You stare at him, and he grins a little wider.

“Fuck you too, Al.”

The Radio Demon laughs. “That’s the spirit, my dear boy!” He claps his hands together.

“Well,” he continues. “Seems there’s a problem afoot. But I trust in your expertise, Anon. You’ve outwit the best of them. Show this interloper what we do to unwelcome guests!”

You take a breath, standing again, going to your flashlight and weapon.

“But, Anon, you should know. . .”

Your gaze returns to him.

“The special something allowing you to wander here and there, allowing you to _survive_ the In Between. Well, once I depart, I can’t manage the things around you. The In Between is unpredictable without a leash. Be on your guard, my suited saboteur. Even I don’t know all the secrets here.”

You snort. “You’re saying I could die?”

“Oh yes, yes, terribly so.”

He shrugs. “Or worse.”

“What else is new?”

You try to ignore what he means by _special something,_ because you refuse to even acknowledge it. The voice, the coldness sitting in the pit of your chest, the tiny spark floating in the dark. That’s not real. It can’t be. It’s just a memory. A bad, bad memory.

There’s a pregnant pause, a moment of reflective silence.

“Will that be all?” Alastor asks, leaning. You nod.

“Yeah, should be. Keep everything quiet. Don’t tell anyone else, or we might scare him off. Or he might try something rash.”

“A shy fan. I’ll see to it affairs are in order.”

You breathe a _little_ easier. Granted, having Alastor keep an “eye” on Angel Dust is probably the farthest thing from what you want, but, what else can you do? Besides, whatever plans he has, benign or no, they involve the spider. It behooves him, to a degree, to keep your boyfriend alive.

He offers a wave. “Well, Anon. I see you’ve got your work cut out for you. Good luck, my dear boy.”

Your face is grim. The reality of what you have to face once again dawns on you, so you hold onto the only thing keeping you sane.

“Just one tab,” you start to say. “And cool his drink down with a little ice. None of that cheap shit, ask him about the _Hibiki,_ he’ll prefer that. And. . .”

Alastor blinks, brow quirked, his form started to shiver and flicker like the darkness around him. He laughs.

“I must be going, Anon.”

Alastor starts to vaporize. You keep talking. “And tell him . . .”

He’s gone. “Tell him I love him.”

The dreary, confounding silence meets you again, save for the muffled, dull ambiance of what sounds like screams stretched through eternity. Fat Nuggets oinks with concern, sniffing at where Alastor used to be. Just you and your Deputy now.

“Nuggets,” you say, crouching. He beams and comes to your waiting hand, while you apply generous pets.

“I need your help again. I need you to help me find someone else. Can you do that?”

The pig blinks, innocent. His flat nose touches the ground again, sniffing. For a while, he does only this, and part of you is afraid he can’t find anything at all. But, like before, the pig starts to shuffling, this time opposite of you both, back the way you came. You grab your Tec and the flashlight, prepared to stare down the dark. You find this a little easier now. At least Angel will be safe.

-*-

You have no sense of time here. This _In Between_ defies all measurements of reality. Being that it’s some kind of _existence_ between Hell, you don’t want to know where it came from, or what it is. Somehow, though, your little savior pig is wandering through it with only his nose to guide him. Like before, you keep the light in front, making sure he has a way to see. You’re on alert too.

Alastor was right. His disappearance has caused a shift. You can’t say how, exactly, but where before the dark silhouettes of the “not Hotel” was like a controlled, humming rhythm, now it all seems more chaotic, disturbed. The walls crawl like flesh every time light touches them, the ground feels viscous in places, and some objects outright mutate. You try to ignore it. You hate it. It’s not your home.

You traverse down what you think is one of the halls. You assume this, because on the other side, there are paintings of demons, portraits of Charlie’s family or others you don’t recognize. Now they’re just veils of black, alien in how lifeless they are. With each step, you try to think where the intruder is. Or what they might look like, or how you’ll ‘deal’ with them. Well, less so how, just _what._ That’s the other thing pressing you on. A hatred. A desire to _hurt_ this intruder. But it’s terrible in its rawness, and in a way, doesn’t feel like you.

You and Nuggets reach another flight of stairs, reaching up to another level. You doubt an elevator works here, so, walking it is.

Before your foot even touches the first step.

“Hey.”

Every single molecule in your body fucking screams. A cold, terrified chill sweeps through you. You freeze. No. No. That’s not fucking possible. It’s not. _It’s not, it’s not, it’s NOT._

Your breath races and Nuggets squeaks, alarmed, looking behind you. You don’t want to move. You don’t want to see. You don’t want to confront the reality that’s there, because it cannot fucking possibly be true.

Your hand is shaking. Nervously, you turn. You don’t even have the willpower to raise your gun.

The eye of light touches something. Polished shoes. A figure. A silhouette. A cheap green suit.

Your heart hammers.

“H-H-Hox!?”

Black, lidless eyes are staring back at you. The Doberman’s grey head is split wide open from a cavernous gunshot wound. His head is near unrecognizable.

“This is your fault,” says Hox.

It’s like someone set dynamite off in your brain. The hot sting of something burns your eyes. Your sin is staring back at you, and you don’t know what to say!

“I. . . I. . .”

“Ey, Hombre.”

Something _ELSE_ appears at your side. A pale, fleshless hand grabs your shoulder, and you buckle, flying backward, hitting the wall, gun pointed forward. Your light touches the skeletal, ruined remains of Sicario, the hire from your Vault job. His mechanical insides are liquid, black pus, and rivers of dark _something_ weeps from his empty sockets.

“Fuckin’ dead cause o’ you,” it says.

NO NO NO NO NO.

You grab Nuggets and bolt, up the stairs. Panic is splintering your concentration. You can hardly see the steps ahead but the sheer voltage of fear is taking care of the rest.

You think you make it to another floor. It’s hard to tell with your movements, the light dancing in front of you like a chaotic firefly.

You trip. Something blocky and fleshy catches your ankle, and you stumble to the ground, clutching the pig to shield him. You stumble back up, tossing light around you. No one there.

_Look down._

“They beat me.”

A head is staring up at you. And limbs. Just limbs. A torso broken by cuts.

. . . it’s the man. It’s the man you shot in the chair. It’s the man you and the mobsters cut apart in the meat locker.

You wretch.

You turn. You still have Nuggets in your arm. You run.

You keep moving until you collide into someone. A stranger. A face you don’t recognize, and yet, you do.

“Fuckin kid,” he says. His breath is like death and bile and alcohol. Shards of glass crown his head.

“Ruined all of it,” the older man spits.

You can’t think or speak. You can only move. The shadows roar and whip and groan. You’re sprinting through oblivion. You have to hide. Have to escape. Have to collect yourself.

You crash through a pair of doors you don’t quite recognize, in a room you’ve never seen. It’s large, with hundreds of seats, all surrounding a stage. A. . . theater?

The chittering clicks of a mandible catch your attention. Two gaunt, orange eyes peer at you from the dark, accompanied by a southern drawl.

“Tsk tsk, you’re no daisy,” it says. “In trouble again? Always need someone to save you? How ever do you manage?”

You want to scream. The shadowed reflection of Sabbath stares at you. You run again, bolting through the veins of the theater seats. Fat Nuggets squirms and groans in protest, perhaps as horrified as you. Every seat you pass, a new voice appears. Shapes coalesce into view. Fleshy ruins of people, souls, demons, sinners.

You throw yourself on stage and find there’s nowhere else to go. When you look back out to the seats, the weak flashlight catches a _sea_ of bodies. All of them you recognize, all of them you’ve seen. You’ve hurt. You’ve killed.

Like a pendulum, EVERYTHING comes flying back into you. Every single fucking memory of every single horrible thing you’ve done, in this life and the previous, to people. Every anxiety, every concern, every insecurity. They all come into view, staring (if they even have heads to look with), a chorus of voices.

“This is your fault,” one says.

“You can’t protect anything.”

“You’re no good.”

“They’re all looking down at you.”

“Nobody really likes you.”

“They’re not your friends.”

“You got me killed.”

“You hurt me.”

“You watched me die.”

“You’re all alone.”

“You don’t belong here.”

"You can't change."

Your back is pressed into the wall, sweat dripping from your brow. You’re going to collapse. The chains of your deeds wrap around you like a snake. You want to scream. You want to vomit.

“I’m sorry,” you say, weakly. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. . .”

Something is forcing the fragments of your life to form and live and writhe. The demons of all that you know haunt you.

“Hox” forms in front of you again. You grab his suit, and collapse to your knees, your voice caught with anguish, hot salty tears burning your vision.

“I’msorryI’msorryI’msorry!”

They all start crowding around you.

You remember all of it.

[You remember everything.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bIMkk3FUFXg)

-*-

A quartet of arms pulls at your side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We interrupt this creepy broadcast for ANGST ROCK.


	4. The Obsessor - Part IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The conclusion to the four-part miniseries.

**The Obsessor – Part IV**

Close.

Close, so close. Closer than ever. Closer than anyone.

Rapid, cold breaths, sweat pouring from veins, nervous tension squeezing chest, fingers clenched, body twitching. Oh, Angel, you’re so _close._ The distractions are gone. All those petty annoyances and bothers, gone, gone. You’re sublime. You’re amazing. You don’t know. You don’t need to know. Just let me see you. Just let me see those eyes, let me see them look at me, _once,_ and I will have them, have you, forever.

Obsessor could _feel_ him. Oh, the proximity, how it drew closer. Every motion he took, every skittering leg and crawling arm was another inch, ever nearer. The ceiling was old and cracked and cramped, generous with its provisions of shadows. No one knew he was there. Well, save for _one,_ but he was soon out of the picture, wasn’t he? A muttering husk now, an empty vessel, soul pulled out and thrown to the side. Once he was gone, this thing, this Anon, there was only Angel. And him, Obs. And he’d make sure they would be closer than _anyone._

His separated, observing eye still clung to the corner of Angel’s room, a black, tiny dot maintaining its coveting gaze on the white-fluff beauty. It allowed him to search every inch of the effeminate arachnid’s frame, stare at every curve, every movement, every shift. Oh, sleeping, quiet, dreaming maybe. Oh, how Angel’s arms curved and held his pillows, so precious. The way his legs entwined together, how his clawed toes flexed now and again. The press of his fluffy chest in the sheets. Yes, yes, his moments now, nobody else, nobody else saw them.

_They are mine now, Angel, and so are you._

He only needed to get to the room, reclaim his eye. Then, _then,_ truly, he could fix everything. Take Angel back, rearrange things to the way they used to be. No Hotel, no collection of vagabonds and whores, and certainly no suited bandit.

Ah, how he imagined it. The room. Getting inside it. Getting inside Angel. He wondered, what did the spider smell like? Or taste like? How would he react when he saw Obs? Would he be impressed with all the things Obs had learned over the years? How could he not? How!? How could he not cherish one who knew every single minute detail about Hell’s biggest adult star? It was Obs’ life, his love, his determination. Surely this effort was to be rewarded. Surely Angel, of all demons, could appreciate this.

Yes, yes, Angel Dust would see right. A glorious, sincere confession was all he needed. Once Obs had a chance to isolate him away from all these distractions, his mind would clear. He’d be so taken, Obs was sure of it. His mandibles salivated with venom at the idea.

_“Ah, Obs, you are so amazing! Wow! Let’s get out of here! You’re the best.”_

His brittle heart pounded in his chest at the idea. He almost fell, nervous anxiety shaking his multiple arms. He realized, too, this was the first time he was near Angel in a physical sense. All other instances were either from a video, an article, a magazine. He lacked the resources to see Angel in the upper echelons of Pentagram City, especially since the higher caste were eager to keep lower demons out. Thus, his appreciation was always from afar. But now? Oh, glory be, it was all going to change.

The ceiling was tall enough that – were any wandering gaze to rouse in his direction – Obs would have nothing to fear. The dark was generous up here, and there were wooden fissures and cracks he could slip himself behind, if for the briefest of moments. His march was safe, his crawl sanctioned by shadow. It was as though the Hotel _encouraged_ him to be with Angel, thanks to all the places he could cloak himself.

Now, where. . .

Second. Second hall. Farthest room down. Gauche and touched with a gentle hint of perfume, a door with the name ANGEL emblazoned on it in gold letterings. That, there, THAT WAS WHERE. That was where he was.

Obs clutched himself. His spare, free arms holding his gaunt chest, the only embrace or tender touch he ever knew. Oh, he couldn’t bare it any longer, Angel was CLOSE. How he yearned for the moment to arrive, for so many years. He just needed. . . to feel. . . to see, once, yes, then he could keep the spider forever. It felt right, perfect. This is the way things should be.

Something red crept into his vision.

Paralzyed, Obs’ wide, saucer-like eyes processed the impossible. Out from the corner, sauntering down the hall in regal stride, was a figure. Quite lean, draped in a crimson, pinstripe suit, a grin of snarling gold tugging his pale, greyish visage. An intruder! AN INTERLOPER! No, no, WORSE. Was that. . .

_The Radio Demon._

What? Why? Why was he here, now!? It couldn’t be! Obs’ heart collapsed, like it fell into a pit of black, cold fear. That bastard was going to ruin everything! He’d heard rumors about the antics of the creature, about those who got tangled up with him ended up with a fate most foul – no doubt Obs would meet a terrible end if the fiend so much as looked at him. Bad enough he was here, in _proximity_ , to him, to Angel. _Why!?_ Did he know? It wasn’t possible. . .

No, no every trace and swagger of his movement indicated he wasn’t aware of Obs. Then, he should move right along, yes? There was nothing to fear, just a momentary hiccup, a small pause.

But. . . he stopped. Stopped _right in front of Angel’s door._

Obs wanted to _scream._ Impossible! IMPOSSIBLE! Why was the creature right there, in his way? Why now? Fate, why did it torment him so? Why did it deny him the object of his affection? Why did it demand he suffer yet longer? Were the years of isolation not enough? Was his torment always to come so close, yet be so far? Why? What did he do wrong? He just wanted to be with Angel! Why was this happening!?

He wanted to bang his head into something. Maybe this was a bad dream, or terrible vision. But, the longer he stared, the more horrifying the reality was. Devil, _no._ Was Angel. . . _with_ Alastor? Repulsive! REPULSIVE! It hurt his heart, it broke his soul to even contemplate the idea. They were stealing him, taking Angel Dust away, the suited thieving lunatic and now this specimen in red. He could bare it no longer.

He had to scurry away, find safe haven again. Find the dark and wait, rethink, figure this out. Too dangerous now, too dangerous. Damn you Alastor, damn you. Damn your rotten, vile soul. Obs wanted to rip his head open from the very _notion_ of the two touching each other. The vision of watching the Anon freak tangled up in the spider was enough to make him sick. This? He could wretch.

He ran away, into the rafters, into the attic. Dark, oh dark, hide me again. The shadows were his only friend, the only thing that ever took him with kindness. Here, at least, he didn’t have to see. Here, at least, he could huddle together, and hope.

Yet. . . he couldn’t. His miniature eye, the one in Angel’s room, it couldn’t bear to look away. From Obs’ vision, he could see the spider stir. Someone was knocking.

-*-

Alastor cleared his throat. His fingers twiddled a plastic baggy here-and-there, uncertain. Goodness, Anon, what a thing to keep on your person. ‘Tabs,’ he called them. They were drugs, were they? Heavens! Scandalous! Mind altering substances. Alastor never understood. A fine wine and a little book reading, that was his high. Perhaps a dash of blood, too, a river of salty-copper and the scream of your prey. But narcotics? A young buck’s thrill.

Well, it was his key to Angel’s attention. The hour was quite late, the Hotel draped in slumber. No doubt the spider wouldn’t take too kind to a late intrusion, but, he gave Anon his word, and his word he would keep. Besides, this whole bangarang would be quite a drag without the foul-mouthed Angel! Oh his antics, how he titillated Alastor so! The things this one would say, gracious. A mother would go to her grave from the horrors handled by the whore’s mouth!

_Tap tap tap._

Three gentle, respectful knocks, scarlet ear tufts wiggling. Strange how they echoed, it was so deathly quiet. Why, you could hear an insect crawling on the walls if you listened hard enough.

Of course, no response. Not that Alastor expected one.

Another few taps. “Angel?” chimed Alastor, tone warm, or as warm as his threatening, static-laced voice could be.

There might have been a mutter or two, but Alaster had to be sure. Normally he’d leave it at that, but, Anon was quite specific with his request. Get the spider _out_ of his room.

“Oh, Angeeel,” tired Alastor again, applying more taps, a bit higher pitched. “Are you awake?”

Quiet. Then, something that was most _certainly_ a string of groans, mutterings, and curses. Oh, the curses! Good heavens! Alastor didn’t even know you could arrange ‘fuck’ that way in a sentence.

A pounding of the floor, then the door rattled open, locks unhinged. The frame creaked open, an exhausted pair of mismatched eyes leering through it. Dark circles hugged Angel’s normally perky façade and his hair tuft was a loose mess.

He squinted. “Whhhhhaaaaaaaaaat?”

Angel’s voice croaked from exhaustion.

Alstor threw his arm in greeting. “Good _evening,_ Angel! Lovely to see you on such a fine night!”

Angel blinked slowly. _Slowly._

“Huh.”

Alastor cleared his throat. “Oh, well, you know, I was taking a stroll, aaaand. I thought it might be nice to oh, ah, let’s see. Catch up! Catch up and check on things!”

Hmm, indeed! That would do nicely.

Angel made a grumbling, gurgling sound, his head pressed into the door frame, struggling to hold himself up.

“Whatthefuckareyataklinabout. . .” he muttered, rubbing his eyes.

Oh, gracious, how to do this? How to even phrase it?

“Well, oh. You’ve been working hard and it seemed like a good idea to. . . oh!” Alastor snapped his fingers.

“Celebrate, yes.”

Angel stared, like the words were still processing. Then, he smirked. “. . . you hittin’ on me, sunshine? Ya’ finally come around?”

Alastor hid his shiver. “Oh, my four-armed friend, it’s purely professional!”

Angel snorted, starting to come to. “I’m a professional too, ya’ know.”

He opened the door a bit wider, hint of his shoulder popping through shirt. He gave a big, wide yawn, stretching.

“Fuckin’ wake me up askin’ me to celebrate and ya’ saying this ain’t a booty call?”

Oh, for the sake of meat and carnage.

“Angel! Now what would your beau think if he heard you talking like that?”

Angel’s smirk pulled into a grin. “He’d probably wanna’ a go at you first, chuckles.”

Alastor did everything he could to pretend he didn’t hear that.

The spider, meanwhile, blinked, looking around, his grin vanishing. “Hey. Waitasec. . .”

He pushed his head out the door, snapping gaze left and right. “Where the fuck. . . hey! Asshole was s’posed to be in bed hours ago! And my baby!”

Alastor blinked. He must’ve meant Anon, and in which case, better the spider didn’t see his partner in crime in the. . . state he was in. A mute, unmoving husk wasn’t the most charming of images, you see. Better get this train on a different railway!

“Ohahaha,” he cut in with an anxious chuckle. “He’s working is all! Why I checked on the young man myself! He wanted me to stop by to check on you, hohohoho! Said you might want something to take the edge off!”

 _Quickly,_ Alastor raised the baggie and wiggled it, like a snake charming its prey. Hopefully Angel took the ‘bait.’ That was different than his ‘original’ story but perhaps the spider was too sleepy to notice.

Angel’s gaze went to Alastor, then the bag, then the tabs inside. Again, he squinted. His lip curled with an uncertain expression, musing.

“Huh. Jerk. He promised.”

A little too much salt for Alastor’s taste. “Oh, it’s a new schedule! Everyone’s adjusting, is all! We’re busy too, what with our grand theatrics growing closer!”

Angel huffed, arms crossed. He shrugged. “I guess.”

He eyed the molly now, clearly tempted.

“. . .and he said it was okay, eh? I don’t wanna’ hear no shit if ‘ _head of security’_ passed on a recoverin’ addict some buzzers,” said Angel, rolling his eyes.

“Strictly for taking the edge off!” assured Alastor. Or so he assumed. Truly, he hadn’t the slightest idea the little squares did, but, each demon to their own poison he supposed.

A long, tired sigh. Angel paused, tapping the door with his extra fingers.

“Well. . . he ain’t here anyway. And I’m fuckin’ awake! Fuck. Might as well. Guess I should put somethin’ on.”

Alastor blinked. Oh. Of course. Angel was only in a t-shirt and a thin sliver of lace hid his crotch. Egads!

“Or we can just _go as is,”_ winked the spider. Alastor winced.

“No no no, please, prudency is a must!” he begged.

“Pft. Whatever.”

Angel swung around, doing a bit too much to show off his backside, before vanishing into his room. Phew. Alastor flicked a nonexistent bead of sweat from his brow. Surly! A right firecracker this one!

Irritation aside, this, he felt, was sufficient. Alastor didn’t know the extent of the intruder’s, well, _intruding._ Was the pesky bugger inside Angel’s domain? He didn’t sense anything too malignant or out of the ordinary, and yet, there _was_ something a little off about things. Never mind the fact that Anon appeared in a place he shouldn’t even know about! But the air, the flavor of it. . . Alastor licked his lips. Something odd was about, oh yes.

A shame Alastor didn’t see this ‘other’ himself! Why, he’d demonstrate just how _unwelcome_ they really were.

The door clicked open a moment later and Angel stepped through. He’d thrown on some. . . _short_ shorts and, what were those? Flops? Did he have those before? Alastor never noticed the flexing toe-claws.

“Kay stretch,” said Angel, shutting his door. “Where to?”

“Downstairs!” Alastor said at once. Easy to keep an eye on things from there. One would have to move as shadows to escape the Radio Demon’s sight on the first floor.

Angel gave a “celebratory” wiggle of his finger. “Great. Invitin’ anyone else to this so-called shindig, or are ya’ finally ready to admit you’ve been crushin’ this whole time?”

Alastor peered down the hall, glancing, ignoring Angel’s remark. “Three’s a company!”

“Afraid master Husk is far too much salt and vinegar and the miss is best left to sleep!”

He handed over the bag, relieved to get it off his person. Angel snatched it, eyeing it with excited intent.

“Ya’ poppin one?”

Alastor blinked. “Absolutely not!”

“Pleh. Pussy.”

Well, Anon’s idea worked. Now he just had to see the spider through the night and Alastor’s favor was paid.

The rest is up to you, dear boy.

-*-

They see you.

A vista of dead eyes and broken bodies leers at you. Mangled and murdered, their mouths wide, streams of black viscous blood streaming from their cold lips. Their voices chant, their words coalesce into a miserable chorus. All of them. Every single one of them. Every face, every person, every memory you drowned out with alcohol, every fear you chased with the needle, every anxiety you quelled with pills and dope and cigarettes.

They have torn open the vein, reached into the pulp of _you_ and come forth. Your back is to the hard wall, and there’s no escape in this dark place. Everywhere you look is another tally, another body.

Hox. _Hox._ He’s the vanguard. The leader of your sins. His doggish head is split apart from a gunshot wound, his black, lidless eyes affixed to you with an accusing stare. Did you really think you could forget? Did you really think you could just wish it all away? Why?

Did you think you were starting to become a _good person?_ Because you fell in love? Anon. Anon you fool. Look out into your sea of sins and see how rotten you really are.

Look. There’s the goon you knifed in lockup for the Family. Oh, and there’s Rusker, you remember him? You took a blunt instrument to his head when you found out he got a little rough with a stripper you were getting sweet on. Percy Hendsley? Slung a little stolen speed his way. He overdosed thanks to you.

Who would accept you now, for all this? The things you’ve done? You belong in here. Not Hell. Not your “home,” in _here,_ this In Between, this nightmare. How could anyone look at the filth of your actions and think you anything more than a two-bit thief? A criminal littered with a desire for more? All your life it’s been a winding road of blood and ego. Redemption? For you?

“You don’t belong with them,” Hox says.

You’re crumpled, clutching something. You’ve lost your weapon and light. The fragment of yourself, the piece of you that’s still hanging on, it grips Nuggets. The rest of you though, it’s drowning. This place is eating you.

“I’m sorry,” you mutter. What else can be said? Hox, please, why can’t he forgive you?

“This isn’t your home. They aren’t your friends,” the shadow says.

It steps closer. “You think he’ll want you? Once they learn who you really are? This isn’t your story. This isn’t your home. You don’t belong here.”

You want to get away. Your chest is tight. It’s harder and harder to breathe, the blackness swallowing you whole. Please, Hox. Not you. Not this. Don’t say this.

Hox is closer. So close he kneels, where the cracked partitions of his muzzle click together, meat and blood spilling from the motions. He’s inches away.

“He’ll leave you too. Won’t be long. He’ll find someone else. Someone much better. It’s not your story. You don’t belong there. You don’t belong with them.”

Someone else comes to Hox’s side. A woman. A woman. . . you recognize. A woman you don’t want to recognize. A woman with a voice you’ve feared to ever hear again.

“After all, who could love a bloody thief?”

This is it then.

You. . . don’t belong there. You don’t belong at all. They all look down at you, and judge you, waiting for your next mistake.

You’re Anon.

You’re nobody.

Something flings out from the dark and snags you by the arm. Your last instinct is to hold onto Fat Nuggets for dear life as a quartet of limbs drags you into a sea of black. Away, away from your accusers, away from the voices, into shadow, into a realm you don’t understand or don’t recognize. Sound muffles. There’s a dreary howling in the air, and for a moment, you lose sense of what you are. Do you have a body or arms? For a fragment of seconds, it’s like you’re a floating mind, a sense, and then. . .

You collide into a floor. A floor?

Hard wood slaps your forehead, and you clutch Nuggets, shielding him. Is he okay? Is he all right? The pig squeaks in pain, but nothing is broken. He squirms in your embrace, and you roll to your back, gasping for air, glancing at the pig. Then you look up. You. . . don’t understand.

A brief shockwave of pain wears off and you stare at a ceiling. A ceiling? Yes, you can see it. There’s light. Timid, warm light, not strong, but it’s there. The walls are covered with oddities and luxuries. Paintings and things you don’t recognize. An acrid stench of lofty tobacco fills the air. There’s a sound. No, music. Deformed, like violins and trumpets, as though a dead band is playing through an empty, ghostly hall. But you’re not in a hall.

[Where?](https://youtu.be/adaTEdqR4xI)

You breathe, sucking in cold breaths, pushing yourself up. Nothing is shattered, despite what felt like a hard collision with a harder surface. No blood. If it’s even _possible_ to bleed in a place like this. The oink grumbles, uncertain, trembling.

You pet Nuggets, reassuring the oink, the only thing keeping you sane in all this. You blink, taking in your surroundings, mind clearing. You’re in a room.

But you’re not alone.

Your vision starts to focus, and your eye widens as realization falls on you like a mountain.

“A-Angel?” you say, in desperate plea. A shadow is standing over you, with familiar curves and dimensions. Four arms, mismatched eyes, white fluff.

But. . .

Something’s different. It’s not Angel. It can’t be. Where his usual white attire hugs his frame, it’s instead replaced by a form-fitting suit, black as ink. A red tie compliments red eyes and red gloves. His black sclera eye is on the wrong side. His tuft hair is shorter, pulled into a different style. His stature, his demeanor, it’s off somehow, like an imitation, a reflection, a mirror.

It’s. . . it’s not your Angel Dust.

You don’t know what to say. The Angel waves at you, wiggling his fingers.

“Angel?” you say again, standing. “Angel, what is this?”

The spider tilts his head, studying you, but says nothing. They shrug.

You can’t hear his voice, and he won’t speak, and it hurts. It hurts so bad. You’d give anything to hear Angel’s words in all this, god, just a whisper, anything. This place is so cold and unfeeling. But, even Fat Nuggets recognizes something is wrong, shuddering in your grasp, so maybe it’s for the better. Maybe it’s better this imitation says nothing at all.

Something behind Angel catches your attention. There’s someone else, behind a desk.

It speaks.

“Oh, hey buddy! Wow, of all the places we’d meet. Like this? We never expected it.”

. . .

What.

. . .

No.

You can’t see them. But you hear them. You recognize them. It cannot be anyone else, couldn’t possibly be anything other than what you’re hearing.

It’s You.

“Really, this is just such a spoiler, you know? We were hoping for something dramatic, theatrical. Us ending up in here? Way to peek at the presents early, right?”

Darkness cloaks the figure, but a single, gleaming point of crimson is visible from the ray of dark. An eye. An eye on the right side of the face.

An eye where yours is not.

Words fail you.

“We can see we’re just not feeling it right now, huh? Guess we understand. Place like this defies the rules. Ahh, but, we make us proud. So sturdy and determined. Annoying bug thought he could toss us aside, eh? But look at us. Nothing can bring us down.”

The figure shifts, leaning forward. You make out a grin, an ugly, malicious sneer with long, sharp teeth, like a collection of knives jammed into a mouth.

“I don’t understand,” you say. You’re lost. Can you even get back? What’s happening?

The stranger pats the table, and the Angel Dust smirks, sauntering to it. They hop on the edge of the wood, crossing legs, watching you with an almost lustful intrigue.

“We don’t need to right now,” the shadow says. “We can see each other because, ah, how can we not? Linked at the hip, so to speak. Two souls bound for one another, made for each other. The greater and lesser half.”

You can’t get over the voice. It’s your voice. _It’s your voice._ Was this another trick of the In Between, another demented materialization of your mind?

“Nope,” it says.

What?

“What, what?” it says again.

You don’t understand.

“Of course we don’t. Not now, anyway.”

Your head hurts, like someone drove a nail into it. A hundred questions are forming, with answers that can’t possibly be. You didn’t say anything!

“We sure about that?” says the shadow.

It makes a sound, a scoffing sound, and irritated sound. “We’re not a shadow, thank you.”

What? Why? W-what’s going on?

“Oh relax,” the not-shadow says.

“. . .oh, you think you’re clever? Funny.”

You clench your teeth. “STOP!”

It’s like thoughts not your own are running through your head and conversations are getting pulled through it, ones you don’t understand, with words that shouldn’t exist. It hurts. The sins of your past are coming for you. And now this. Oh god, was this true death? Was this real Hell?

“Hah!” chimes the not-shadow. “I’ll save us the trouble. This is an anti-climax, isn’t it? For it all to fall apart here? No, no, no! The plans we have! The things we’ve got in store! We can’t fail here now, can we buddy?”

The not-shadow places a hand on “Angel’s” thigh, rubbing it.

“We’re forgetting something, aren’t we? What’s always there, what never left. That sweet, delicious hate. And that’s what gets us out, because. . .”

A long pause. A cold, terrible voice erupts into the room, shaking the walls, rattling the floor.

_Let me out._

“Very poetic,” they continue. “So! We’ll do us a favor. Get us right to the culprit, right in its ugly face. That’s what we’re trying to do, right? Put on our big-boy pants and ‘remove the threat?’ Yes, yes, how nice. Consider this like a uh, an olive branch, a gift.”

You’re in disbelief. What are you hearing right now? How is any of this even real? Is this yourself, telling you what to do? Who was it? It couldn’t be you, it couldn’t be.

“Why not?”

You grimace. Stop! Every time that happens, it’s like something is scraping into your mind, peeling it apart, as though the words aren’t yours, as though it’s drilled from somewhere else. It’s agony, and you want it to stop, you want to get out.

“Done.”

You feel like you might collapse. Processing all this is hard – it happened so fast. The demons of your past aren’t around anymore, no longer present to point and accuse and chastise. But you still don’t feel safe. You don’t know what _this_ is, or why there’s an Angel imitation, or why the voice sounds exactly like you. This has to be the chaos of the In Between. Alastor was adamant on that, so perhaps it was all a bad dream, and you just had to wake up.

The figure sighed.

“It’s no dream,” they say. “It’s all there. The pieces of us are flowing out and this happy little hell is eager to take advantage. Come on, come on, we know why this is happening, don’t we?”

You feel Fat Nuggets behind you, hiding.

“I. . . I don’t understand any of this. . .” you say aloud.

The not-shadow laughs. “Maybe. But we know why it’s happening. We just don’t want to admit it.”

That sharp grin grows ever wider.

“We didn’t _really_ think he was gone, did we? And now? Now it’s a part of us. A tiny, frail little spark, but he’s there. We’re all there. Like pieces to a big puzzle. See, we should be dead in a place like this, but that anchor, that piece of ol’ Abby, it’s keeping us alive. We can feel it, right?”

You stare. No. No, that’s not true. That’s a lie. You know what you did. What you had to do. It. . . can’t be. . .

“Egh. Forgot how stubborn we are. Well, anyway, ol’ buddy. Those pieces of us are all getting pushed out. The In Between _loves_ it. Like a hungry animal. Neat, huh? Memories, feelings. . . attracted to what we have, that hate lurking within.”

You can hardly make sense of it. You don’t want to. What this ‘other you’ is saying just isn’t true, it has to be a trick.

“Ugh, whatever,” they shrug. “In time, we’ll learn.”

This is insanity. And you know what? You can’t stay here any longer. This realm will tear you apart, confound you, confuse you. Consume you. Forget all of it, forget all of it now! Forget the sins, forget the memories, you just have to get back. You have to get back home, to Angel, because if you don’t someone will hurt him.

You only want to know one thing:

“Who are you?”

An eruption of cold, volcanic laughter escapes the figure. Those sharp, filed fangs bare and they cackle, throwing their head back in a sound so cruel and malicious. They press a hand into their head, going mad with chortles.

They snap their fingers. “Oh, oh god. Good one! Legna, Legna please. . . be a lamb and see us out?”

The. . . Angel? They shift, prancing from the table and swaggering to you. It fills you with fear, instead of comfort.

“Oh!” continues the other. “We mentioned a gift. The intruder? On the roof. Waiting. We’re sure we’re _so_ eager to meet them.”

You can’t say anything, so utterly and completely confounded. You brace for this “Legna,” shielding Nuggets, but the spider just throws an arm around your shoulder. He pulls you to a door, flicking it open, and through it is nothing but dark. You think you’re about to die, until soft, hot lips press into your ear.

“See you real soon,” Legna says, tone a low whisper.

You feel something push, and once again, a blackness consumes you.

-*-

A fist of cold ice crashes into your chest. You gasp, sputtering, like your lungs haven’t worked for eons. And maybe they haven’t. Maybe you were dead.

Life rips itself back into your conscious mind, your heart hammers against your chest, and you tumble over, frame weak, muscles failing. You cough, you gasp, you groan, fighting you way back to reality. It’s as though you were drowning in a deep, lightless lake, and only now have you broken through the surface.

You almost wretch, your sight blurry. First thought. Nuggets? Where is he? You reach around, trying to feel. You’re on the floor, you think, and you panic. Your hand collides with something soft, and you recognize the dimensions of a pig. Oh thank fuck.

You grimace, pushing yourself up, wobbly. You look around, features and dimensions of the objects around you starting to return to focus, washed in a dull, orange light. The air stinks of cheap cigarettes and cheaper alcohol. The dull static of a screen buzzes in the background. It’s your office. You’re back.

You jolt with a start, expecting more fragments of your old sins to start lurching out from the walls. You stand, leaning on the blueprint-covered disk, flexing your fingers. You look to see Nuggets, who also comes to, grumbling and oinking with pained winces as he forces himself to hooves. Relief floods into you to see him okay. He got you through this, the one piece of sanity you had left in all that, the one reason you could find Alastor at all.

. . . in all that. Fuck. FUCK. What was it? Was any of it real? The shadows and the bodies and Hox. . . Christ among the dead, you felt sick. You can hardly process any of it. You wanted to drown it. Drown it with something – alcohol, drugs, anything.

But _you can’t._ Reality slaps you. There’s a bigger problem right now, one you have to take care of! You snap your eye to the phone, the broken handle dangling from its cord like a helpless creature on a vine. Yes, you were back now, you had to be, and that meant the intruder was still here. But where?

_On the roof._

Oh. Right. The figure in shadow, with a smile so terrifying, told you. Fuck. It sent cold electricity right through your spine, the face you couldn’t see, the voice that was _yours._

Your head was numb from questions without answers, like a plague. But, it had to be set aside, too much was at stake. You were home, and you had to protect it, by any means necessary. That voice, that intruder, saw things, knew things. They invaded, they interfered. Fear started to drain from you, replaced by something worse.

As Nuggets started to rouse, you went to him, offering a comforting pat. His corkscrew tail wiggled, ears flagging, happy to see you. But you weren’t smiling.

“Stay here,” you say with a grim firmness. The pig tilted his head.

“I need to do something.”

You straightened, collected. Or, as collected as one could possibly be considering what you’ve seen. You quashed everything. You buried the confusion, the questions, the fear, the ghosts. For another time. For another day. Now?

You clenched your fist, going for the door. You didn’t bother with a weapon. You didn’t need it. Fat Nuggets squeaked, wiggling after you, but you forced him to stay put. This wasn’t something he needed to see.

You leave the office, and every step you take seems to separate the fears and anxieties of your previous experience. Instead, each footfall ignites something else, because each footfall is a reminder. A reminder that someone is in your home, that someone threatened Angel, that someone is still here. Like a fire, something burns inside you. A tiny spark, floating in a black sea, distant but close, and you grab it. You grab it and a searing malice consumes you, a desire to cause pain, a desire to destroy and hurt the one who might cause your Angel any harm.

You waste no more time. The Hotel is quiet and, as far as you know, Angel should be with Alastor. Good. No one should see this. You speed towards the steps leading to the roof, up several flights, charged with renewed vigor. It’s strange now, it feels so good to be alive, to be out of the In Between, to be in proximity to _hurt._

You rush for the rooftop door, kicking it open. The ambiance of Pentagram City washes over you, the chaos of the city noise intermixed with a distant horizon creating a vista of massive black towers draped in neon. Heat is in the air, and the sky cracks with lightning. The rumble of thunder muffles things, and rain starts to fall. Heavy, black, crimson.

A noise.

“GAH!”

Your single eye scans and locks onto it. There. There it is. There he is.

“W-w-w-what!?”

Thin, frail, hunched, a body draped in stained clothes like a pauper, long mandibles clicking together with two massive, black saucer-like eyes, a quartet of thin, skeletal arms accenting its frame. It’s pitiful. Utterly and completely pitiful, a pathetic excuse of anything. When you see it, you almost want to laugh.

“NO!” it screams. The voice is cold, shrill, but you recognize it, the one from the phone.

“HOW!?”

You take a step forward and at once the figure stumbles back, falling into the baroque fencing crowning the Hotel roof. The massive pink HAPPY HOTEL neon sign covers him in a strange, pink aura, but even from here, you can see his frame tremble from fear. Droplets of rain stain his body, and his head snaps here and there, panicking, looking for an escape.

“This can’t be!” it screams. “No! How! You aren’t supposed to be alive!”

You take another step forward. Every fucking _second_ this waste of space continues to draw breath is an insult to you. This. THIS creature is the one who invaded your life, who stole your words, your private moments. The one who dared come near Angel. You can’t describe the raw vein of throbbing anger building inside you. You want to destroy him, every piece and fragment of him.

It points at you, accusing. “Y-y-you! Why!? I don’t understand! Why is this happening!?”

Another step.

“This isn’t fair!” it whines. “I. . . why you!? I. . . you. . . why did he choose you!? I gave him everything! I gave him everything! Every second of my life, every day!”

You get closer.

It shrinks and yanks something off the wet rooftop, a shard of pink glass, holding it before its thin body. Quivering. It might piss itself.

“STOP LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT!” it screams.

“How, how can you judge me!? Y-you don’t understand. . . you’re. . . you’re a fiend. . . a criminal! I saw, I saw all of it! But he still chooses you!”

The words mean nothing to you now. All the terror from the In Between, the misery, it’s gone now. It’s replaced by the thoughts of something that desires the death of this thing, completely and utterly.

“You’re all the same!” it squeals. “You don’t know my isolation! You don’t! All I wanted, just a word, just a look. . . Angel. . .”

Hearing THAT thing say your spider’s name makes something in you snap, and you lurch forward, your hands snaring his neck and with all force, throwing him into the ground. His form snaps and cracks and he tumbles along the glistening rooftop like a piece of wood, wincing and groaning in agony as he rolls, hapless.

“Gnugh. . .”

“ _Don’t. Fucking. Say. His. Name.”_

When you speak, it feels different. It’s your voice, but not.

The shaking thing stares back at you, crumpled.

. . . weeping.

“I j-just. . . j-just. . . wanted him to know I was r-real. . .”

You start on him again. Hearing him hurt feels good, but it shouldn’t.

“D-doesn’t it mean something. . . w-why you. . . d-doesn’t it mean anything that I gave him so much. . .”

You yank him up with a single arm. Where the fuck is this strength coming from anyway? But again, you don’t care. You throw him, again, sending him careening into the hard metal fence, and he coughs with pain, one of the metal spikes driving into his back.

His black eyes are glistening now, tears streaming down them in excess, and his voice cracks.

“I-I-I’m just s-s-so alone. . .”

For a moment, for the briefest of seconds, all the rage is replaced by a faint, distant sensation: pity. But it doesn’t last. It doesn’t matter.

It’s not about how he feels.

It’s about what belongs to you.

You rush into him, hands curled around the frail neck, and you lift him. He’s quite frail, and all it would take is a little pressure to drain the life out of him, right now. You get right in his face, his sobbing, broken face.

“He doesn’t even know you exist,” you say.

That spark inside you. . . it grumbles. It twitches. Feeding it feels so. . . right.

At your words, the creature stops fighting, and sags, and weeps. He cries, loudly into the uncaring night, clutching himself with arms, because they’re the only arms that ever care to hold him. Hold yourself, little spider, there’s no one else for you. You’re all alone down here.

_Now hurt him._

Yes. Yes, hurt him. Hurt him bad. Break him until he’s nothing bu-

Wait.

Wait, wait, wait, wait.

You blink, and you see something, in his eye, his reflective black eye. Yourself. Cold and cruel and merciless and full of hate. You. . . no. That’s not you, is it? It can’t be. This isn’t you, you don’t do this. . .

Do you?

Your grip. . . softens. You release him, backing away, looking at your hands. The figure just falls into the ground, curled up, weeping so terribly, buckling with sorrow.

“It h-h-hurts. . .” he mutters.

Anon. Stop.

Is this really you? Is this all you are, just another violent thug? What would the others think if they saw you? What would they say? Are you going to add this person into your collection of people you’ve hurt? What if the pig saw you? What if. . . Angel saw you? That all you are? A sociopath? Like all the others in this rotten city?

Another crack of lightning and the rain picks up harder. The whimpering creature stares up at you, and realizing you’ve stopped, starts to crawl away. Over the fence, over the roof, to the ground, running.

_You’re just letting him leave!?_

. . .

He’s not coming back.

You exhale, and all the strength has gone out of you. That strange spark evaporates, hissing at your mercy. Fuck.

Fuck.

This job sucks.

-*-

The walk downstairs feels like an eternity. Like you’re moving, but not. As though it’s you, but not you. Fucking hell your head hurts.

It isn’t until you hear the familiar chime of someone’s voice that you brighten, at least a little. On the first floor, in one of the main rooms, Angel’s sardonic quips are intermixed with the strained, uncomfortable musings of Alastor. Even from here, you can _hear_ the struggle.

“. . .yeah cause one time, like, the dick was bigger’n my head! Thought I’d die, nyaha!”

“O-oh. That’s uh, quite something!”

Oh, god, you’re home. You really are. You don’t care how furious Angel might be since you technically broke curfew. Whatever. He can scream at you all he wants. It’s over. For now, it’s over.

Your steps are quickly followed by the skittering of hooves. Fat Nuggets was none too pleased to be left behind, so he scurries right past you, right into Angel’s slightly drunk, slightly high vision. You can hear the spider cough.

“FFWHA!? THEFUCK! NUGS!”

You approach and see Angel scoop up the little oink.

“What are you doin’ UP!? YOU’RE S’POSED TO BE ASLEEP!”

Alastor notices your approach first, and relief softens his features. He’s sitting, but his entire posture is stuff, no doubt harassed by Angel’s “colorful” recollections.

Nuggets squirms happily, uncaring he’s in trouble. Then, Angel’s mismatched eyes snap to you. Not fake ones. Real ones. It feels like you haven’t seen them for an eternity. It feels good.

“Hey!” he growls. “The hell is this shit!?”

He blinks, realizing you’re soaked with bloody rain.

“Why are ya’ wet!? Why ain’t you in bed!?”

Alastor clears his throat.

“Long night, dear boy?”

You nod. You don’t have the strength to say much else.

Angel goes red. “Did. . . did you ruin’ that suit!? Are ya’ tryin’ to piss me off!? The fuck! Ya fuckin’ idiot! The hell were you doin’, havin’ a fucking party outside! Any idea how late it is!? Motherfuckerdicksuckinshit!”

He stands, wobbling a bit from the alcohol and drugs, Nuggets in his grasp as he comes to you. He looks at you, furious, shooting a glance at Alastor.

“Sorry, chuckles, gotta’ cut this shit short. Genius here is a fuckin’ mess as usual. Get your dumbass to bed look like ya’ gonna fall over stupid motherfucker all wet and shit keepin’ my pig up. . .”

Mutters. You don’t care.

You embrace him, close.

Closer than anyone.

He quiets, uncertain. "Uh. . ."

Gently, his arms come around you, and it's all you ever needed. All the horrible things are quieted.

He sighs. "Fuckin'. . . come on. Bed."

-*-

Through the streets, the dark veins of the uncaring city, he limps. Nobody is looking his way. Nobody stops to help the weeping, broken form of spider. No matter the cries of anguish leaving Obs, none assist. He’s alone, as he always is.

He flings himself into an alley, to the dark, his only ally, the only thing that ever cared about him. At least in these shadows, there’s some safety. His mind is a mess. His world is destroyed. The things he saw, he can’t understand.

Why?

Why. . .

A loud _thunk_ erupts from behind him. Obs screamed, backing away. There’s something with him, something enormous, something much larger than he with wide, bulbous red eyes. Its mandibles click, ground cracking as it moves close.

“Hi.”

A claw reaches out for him.

Something finally touches him. But it’s not what he wanted.

-*-

You know something now.

This isn’t good enough.

You must become better than you were before. You can’t protect anyone as you are, with what you have. You have to be better.

You go to Baxter in the morning and ask him for something. You need equipment, an apparatus, a device that gives you sight where it should always be.

You ask him to make a featureless helmet, fit to the dimensions of your skull. Like black glass, giving you insight, information. With it, with new inventory, you can protect your family, your home, your Angel.

Because next time. . .

[No one will save you but yourself.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DqdyyxdZ4cQ)

**END**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You survived!
> 
> Dear reader, thanks for hopping on board this little mini-parter of mine. This was designed to challenge You, head of security, while serving as a transitioning piece between TSH and Series II. It was a lot of fun to write and I hope you enjoyed it! Diving into scary themes and supernatural elements is a bit new for me, but what a ride it was!
> 
> As always, I'm so happy you've been along for the ride.
> 
> Goodness, what's gonna' happen now?


End file.
